


Bound Within My Heart

by Voodoosgirl



Series: Divisible By Three [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Feels, Good Boyfriend Steve Rogers, Hallucinations, Hearing Voices, Hurt/Comfort, Implied past non-con that is not graphic, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, M/M, Obsessive-Compulsive, Original Character(s), Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Recovery, Redemption, Swearing, past violence not graphic, seizure disorder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-19 17:51:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 97,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14242623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voodoosgirl/pseuds/Voodoosgirl
Summary: A year has passed since Bucky came out of cryostasis in Wakanda. The trigger words are neutralized thanks to Mother, the Black Widow operative that planted them nearly seventy years earlier. His self-imposed mission of atonement stumbles forward wrapped in a host of PTSD symptoms, a seizure disorder compliments of Hydra’s mind wipes and a Voice in his head that he has come to tolerate, for the most part.Steve and Bucky have moved from friends to lovers but the relationship faces mounting pressure from medication side effects, Bucky's feelings of guilt, and ill-timed late-night calls from Tony Stark. Bucky finally breaks and heads to Russia on a quest for redemption that brings him face-to-face with his own violent past. Steve is a hot three seconds behind him.





	1. The Call

**Author's Note:**

> Hello Dear Readers!  
> This story picks up where "Sometimes Darkness Will Show You the Light" left off.
> 
> I plan on weaving in backstory so this can be read as a stand-alone.

 

 _"You used to have balls Soldier.”_ The hissed comment slid across his brain.

“I got balls, pal. Don’t you worry about that.” Bucky’s mumbled words wrapped around the lip of a bottle. A sidelong glance at no one, his muttered “I got all kind of balls,” brought his head back, the bottle in his raised hand, he let the smooth, cold creamy liquid flow tasteless across his tongue, numb his throat and flush his skin with the deception of warmth.

Eyes closed, the wash of alcohol invited in waking dreams of memories. The yellow-hued dimness of a dingy safe-house lost among the scattered landscape of time and place. The ache of broken bones crept across his body, the putrid smell of blood and sweat found its way back into his nostrils; the shiver of his real-time cold brought back the memory of unrelenting pain that racked even his enhanced body. Echoes of insistent Russian words from countless faceless men, rough hands forcing him down, holding his head, drowning the aftermath of a mission gone bad. He choked then and now on the harsh taste of cheap vodka poured down his throat to overwhelm his fight and pain.

  
He swigged down another deep gulp.

" _Really? In case you haven’t noticed, said balls are literally frozen to the hood of a pickup truck, Stolichnaya vodka tucked between your legs instead of Steven Grant Rogers, and you’re contemplating throwing your inebriated ass at the feet of Iron Man. Those balls are shriveling by the second.”_

  
Bucky shook his head. It helped clear the snow from his hair and toss his memories into a fleeting disarray; it didn’t do much to dislodge his tormenting internal monologue. It never did. His muttered confession, “Shoulda done this in Siberia, way overdue,” was solemnly heard by the silent falling snow; it went ignored by his inner companion. An awkward brush across his face to clear soaked hair from his vision, he raised the night vision goggles towards the sprawling complex below the old access road vantage point. The left to right then back again scans lingered at one spot, a visual speed bump on the path of his self-imposed quest for atonement. The giant  _ ** _A_**_  on the side of the building apparent to his eye despite the fog of two quarts of vodka and a thick veil of snow and sleet.

  
_“Look at you, the pathetic embodiment of existential angst. A far cry from our glory days raining down unapologetic chaos without a free-will induced thought crossing your mind. Mother would be digging in her trunk for her favorite stun prod. You remember her, right? That saint of a woman who helped create the Soldier nurtured your glorious career, protected you from that red-faced rival, Alexei Shostokov from the Red Room all those years. She’s the one you dumped in that wasteland prison a few months ago. You ungrateful cur."_

“Correction. Not Mother.” His drunken attempt to tap the bottle to his temple slid across his forehead. “Gieta Sokolov. Black Widow extraordinaire, mistress of the Red Room,” He dragged in a deep and staggering breath, announcing to the captive audience of trees, “Master of psychological conditioning, the creator and the destroyer of the words in my head.” A raised bottle salute towards the Northern sky slurred words heart-felt but dampened by the falling snow, “May you rot in that puke green cell for whatever years you have left. Not a lot since you’re as old as me and Steve. Good, hope you live to a hundred and twenty stuck in that shit-hole where I left you.” The final drops of vodka slipped down his throat, a commemoration of his table-turning efforts against his old handler from the Red Room days. Alcohol blurred eyes examined the bottle, assured of its emptiness, he lobbed it far to land silently in the woods.

_“Agent Sokolov didn’t un-trigger your brain so you could addle it with cheap alcohol and freeze to death five miles from that quaint house the Captain retrofitted as a Nomad lair. If you die out here, Wilson’s going to take your bed, your Captain America sleepwear, the stash of Thin Mints, and all your guns. Knives too. Greedy bastard.”_

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut against the unrelenting commentary from the Voice in his head. The experiment with alcohol failed. His low whispered, “I kinda hoped you’d get drunk too,” was meant as a personal commentary that he hoped would be missed by the Voice. Discouragement washed over him, there were no secrets from his own mind.

“ _Dream on, Soldier. Not how it works. Your lack of fortitude just set me free. Alcohol; the great lubricant, indiscreet sex, dancing on tables, truths told that are best kept quiet. How about we call Romanova and tell her how we really feel about her? Or Wilson, then again that would be pointless, he already knows you hate him, but you could tell him about the jealousy. Yes?"_

A stinging gust of icy wind tore across the hilltop, pulling the tears that come from the cold, he tugged his hood onto his head. The numbing wash of alcohol dulled the frigid temperatures tamped down his hearing and pulled his vision into a darkened blur of mist and shadow. His reconnaissance of the New Avengers Facility fell into an exercise in self-loathing fueled by guilt, comforted by the cold and drowning in enough alcohol to put Wilson under the table for a week. A fact that brought on a perverse sense of pride. The events from three nights previous wandered to the forefront of his mind, he replayed the call that led to his frozen midnight vigil:

 

  
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

“There, right there.” Bucky’s groaned words fell next to Steve’s ear, rough-skinned hands maneuvered his willing body, pushing deeper into him; hips relaxed wide to take all of Steve between his legs. A low hiss of pain when metal fingers disrupted flesh, his worried withdrawal of touch was discouraged as Steve’s bite to his lip pulled a hint of blood washed away with his tongue. Colliding flesh, blended moans, the rhythmic complaint of the bed with Steve’s drive to fill him, overwhelmed the Voice’s relentless commentary; a few moments of reprieve. Quickening breaths, the pulse of blood in his groin, a flash of sweat across his thighs that mingled with Steve’s, all building to a final climax interrupted by the abrupt and jarring ring of the phone.

Steve pushed through, ignoring the intrusion, he braced his hands on Bucky’s cheeks, trying to keep him focused. “Look at me, forget that. Just look at me.” An open-mouth exploring kiss, a push to drive deeper inside of him, to distract his inevitable panic whenever the phone rang couldn’t overcome the insistent buzz as the caller simply hung-up with each roll to voicemail and tried again. And again.

  
Bucky's groan reverberated against Steve’s neck, “For fuck’s sake, it’s 3 AM. Who the hell is calling you at 3 AM.” He struggled to free himself from Steve’s grip, squirming out from under him, pushing him off, he rolled to his knees on the floor.

Steve sprawled across the bed, reaching to hold on a few seconds longer until he slipped out of his grip. “Us. Someone is calling us. We all live here, remember, you, me, Natasha and Sam.” He slapped at the phone on the bedside table, his terse “Yes,” when he answered was stopped short by the caller.

  
“One big happy family.” Bucky threw a hand in the air and muttered, ”I’m not taking any calls, thanks since I’m still wanted in a hundred and seventeen countries.” The anxiety that bubbled under his every waking and not-waking minute urged him into his clothes. The ever-present Beretta tucked in the back of his jeans; he settled on the floor, knees drawn up, fake-ignoring Steve’s side of the conversation, the initial “Yes,” followed by “Tony,” ending exactly nine minutes later with an emphatic “Stark.”

 

Steve turned on the lamp by the bed, taking too long to turn his gaze towards Bucky, his tone matter-of-fact, "That was Stark."

Bucky sat statue-still, breath long and slow, a settling choice when faced with a crisis; his head pressed back against the wall, hands braced on his knees. “No shit.”

"Right.” Steve reached for his jeans. “He got the Hydra data from the Boston mission. The data you chose to send to him. He wants to talk."

"At 3 AM? He calls you to talk about a data dump we did three months ago. I thought he was a genius. It took him three months to figure it out?"

"He wants to meet.” Steve watched the tension spread across Bucky’s body, the return of the faint head shake, a remnant of the memory suppression machine's gift of seizures; the ominous settling of the plates in his metal arm. “He’s got good leads and wants to meet, with me.”

"And you're gonna go? After all this time, and what happened, the Accords are still in place. He could just as easily take you in." 

"He's not going to take me in." Steve crossed to kneel in front of Bucky, he brushed the hair from his face, "We dumped those files into his servers remember, we trusted him to do the right thing, and he has. There are good leads there he wants to talk about it."

"Give me a break." Bucky ducked his head from Steve's hand, "Three months is a lifetime in my world. What was left of Hydra went underground, anything worth following should've been dealt with days maybe a week after we dumped it. Not three months. No. You can't go. I don't trust him."

Steve wrapped his hands around Bucky's bare feet, "I do." He studied the worried look then added, "There will be no discussion about you."

“No. It’s not about me.” Bucky shook his head, “Where and when? I’ll track you. Got your back. I won’t let him take you. I promise I’ll kill him if he touches you.”

Steve’s raised eyebrow question, "I thought you swore a no killing oath?” Was met with a snarled response, “There are exceptions to that rule.”

“Buck, I can take care of myself.”

“Bullshit. It’s my job to watch your back. Where are you meeting?”

“At the Avengers Facility,” Steve ran his hands up Bucky’s calves to rest on both knees, “Tomorrow morning.”

“New York City? Tomorrow? We’ll need Fury’s chopper.”

A long deep breath helped Steve steady his tone as he slid his hands onto Bucky’s chest, searching for his heartbeat. He braced, "Ah, no. Not the city. It's in Upstate New York. About fifteen minutes from here. Stark lives right down the road.”

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

_“There are only three good reasons for him to call at 3 AM, somebody died, somebody needs to die, and phone sex. Maybe four reasons; clandestine planning to give you up to your arch enemy but that violates your anxiety-driven OCD rule of only numbers divisible by three, so we’ll forget that last one for now. It does need to be said again, why the hell didn‘t the good Captain tell you that Stark lived so close you might haggle with him over the arugula at the local mini-mart?”_

“Not Captain,” Bucky mumbled and flopped back on the hood, blinking against the falling snow, arms spread wide, chewing on the inside of his lip. He launched into a fair imitation of Steve’s tone and cadence, laced with an undercurrent of sarcasm, “You were so vulnerable, Buck, unstable, you ran when Sharon and Fury contacted us, that old Widow handler from your past kidnapped you, tortured you. Pal, you fucking tried to kill yourself. I watched them pound on your chest to bring you back. I wasn’t gonna tell you that Stark’s complex was five miles away. Not until you were better. I’m sorry, but I did what I thought was best to protect you.”

The groan that followed was as much a comment on Steve’s excuse as it was for the effort to sit up. The slide from the hood fell into a stumble, he caught himself on the fender and steadied the spin in his head. “Fuck, let’s get this over with, hiding behind Steve all this time, thinking I could avoid paying the price for the shit I did.” He dropped his head to the cool of the windshield, “Stark deserves this for what I did to him. I deserve this. What an idiot, thinking Steve and I could, you know, be together. Acting like nothing happened.” He rolled his head to cool the other cheek on the glass. “You’re right; I hate it when you’re right, no balls. Gonna do it. Give myself up. Let Stark have what he wants.” He held onto the truck as he tripped his way towards the driver’s door.

 _“Soldat, You're a free man now. All those decisions now on you alone, so much responsibility. The smorgasbord of life, making choices, living with the consequences of ignoring the sage advice of SGR, abhorring the scolding looks of the Good Widow, mocking Sam-the-Other-Boyfriend-Wilson`s cruel yet insightful commentary._  
_You. Are. A. Free. Man. Or child as the case may be argued._  
_Remember last week, your snarking insistence on trying an all-you-can-eat buffet while scoffing at their advice. Who knew nine trips to the shrimp boat coupled with six bowls of mac and cheese and 12 jalapeño poppers would end in super-serum puking? Points for keeping it all divisible by three, at least your OCD numbers fetish remains intact. A perfect example of free-choice without heeding good counsel. I particularly enjoyed Romanova holding your hair off your face in the men's room while protective Steve Rogers stood guard. Glory days indeed.”_

  
The firm tap of his forehead to the door didn't’ help him fathom what the Voice was getting at or dislodge its manic advice.

  
_“Short answer: Bad idea to face Stark now. You’re drunk. Bad form.”_

  
Bucky nodded as he climbed into the front seat, the fumbled attempt to put the keys in the ignition ended with them on the floor. A sighed, “Too late, I’m doing this, and I’m not gonna take advice from a damn auditory hallucination.” He sprawled across the seat, pawing in the darkness, a quick temptation to fall asleep and be done with it all was thwarted by the Voice.

  
_“Or this is all about your dick. You can’t get it up so, therefore, distract Steve with this piss-poor plan of surrendering to Stark.”_

  
“I am not discussing my sex life.” He dragged his hand through the trash on the floor, “With an imaginary Voice.” Fingers raked across the mats, a metal digit snagged the keys. “In my head.” He sat up triumphant, “Sorry.”

  
_“So I’m right. You're avoiding him."_

  
“You, yes. Steve, no.” The fight to get the key in the ignition ended with the truck’s whined protested start.

  
_“We haven’t tried all the Ben & Jerry's flavors yet.”_

  
“We?” He mumbled as he threw it into gear, “There is no we but me and Steve.”

  
Bucky sped towards the main entrance to Tony Stark’s New Avengers Facility. The truck’s rear end slipped and slid on the ice-covered roads, bouncing against the snowbanks as he headed for the fate he believed was inevitable. What he deserved. The headlights danced their jigging reflection off the narrowed roadway as he jerked the wheel to compensate for every slipping loss of traction. Wet streaks of sleet streamed sideways off the windshield, pushed by the clicking, rhythmic motion of the wiper blades. His thoughts fell under the mesmerizing spell of alcohol, snow, and darkness.

_"Then think of Steve. You’ll never see him again. Never feel his gorgeous firm body lying on top of you, he’ll never use the handcuffs; remember how hot that was even if he fake locked them just to be respectful of your PTSD. You won’t ever hear him groan your name when he comes, never feel him inside of you again…”_

“Enough!” The sudden motion of slammed on brakes, lurched the truck sideways to spin a full circle and a half when the tires refused to grip the snow-packed roadway. It pinballed back and forth, bouncing off the remnants of plowed snow, slamming through a line of mailboxes to finally come to rest perched on a snowbank yards from the facility’s front gates.

  
Bucky gripped the steering wheel, heart pounding into his temples, he sucked in a halting breath and pressed his forehead to his hands. ”Nothing’s gonna shut you up is it? Not getting drunk, not sleeping, not meds, not sex, nothing.” His metal fist closed and shot towards the dash, only to stop a hair from connecting. A shiver tore through him, he reached into the glove compartment and dragged out the Beretta. The cold metal clung to his flesh hand; his finger caressed the trigger for a heartbeat, familiar, comforting; he tossed the gun to the floor. His whispered, eyes closed begging request, “Please stop torturing me. Please let me go" futile. He let his head fall back against the headrest, “Never thought I’d miss Hydra; miss having my brain fried into nothingness but it was the only thing that shut you up.”

  
_“Hydra’s dead and gone. Thanks to your self-righteous mess in Boston that masqueraded as a pathetic attempt at redemption, the one true family you've had for seventy years are scattered to the wind. Let's face it Wilson called it. The Barnes Redemptive Mission Debacle. You still owe Fury fifty-five million dollars for the damages to the historic underground trolley system there."_

  
Bucky swallowed hard as he raised his head. Even as his own thoughts rose and faded they were inextricably wrapped around the Voice’s monologue. Like some parasitic invading species that burrowed into his brain to curl its insidious tendrils around each delicate nerve. The Voice wouldn’t go away. No hope for ever extricating himself. He pushed it aside and did what he felt was the next right thing. He slid down the snowbank and stumbled up to the gates of the New Avengers Facility. The surveillance camera panned to take him in, the lens spinning to focus, he looked straight into the eye. He’d vaguely rehearsed his speech for this moment. Variations of “I’m here. It’s time. Do you want me? I’m ready. Let’s do this. I'm so ridiculously sorry.” None of his imagined confessions included being turned down. He pressed the call bell. Nothing happened.

 

 _“Speaking of being a screw-up. Fury’s still pissed about the chopper you stole; Wilson bet_ _Romanova that you wouldn’t last three straight months on the medications and Nomad is already looking for a new boyfriend. You heard him whispering on the phone; the jerk, he knows how paranoid you are. He’s interviewing your replacement with you sitting right there. Oh, and Wilson’s going to pitch a fit over your using the truck as a slalom sports vehicle --- again.”_

__< <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<_ _

 

“Buck, you here?” Steve’s hand slid across the cold sheets, the empty space next to him crept into his dreams and pulled him to wake whenever Bucky left their bed for too long. The door was open enough to let in the hallway light, he searched the shadows of the room, no form curled in the corner, no figure staring out of the window.

  
His last remnants of sleep chased away by the intrusion of a phone. A rush of worry, he scrambled to answer. The caller left no room for formalities and launched into their terse and loud statement. The click ending the tirade could be heard across the bedroom where Natasha and Sam stood in the doorway.

  
Sam opened, “Let me guess, he’s been picked up jaywalking and the cops want his parents to come and get him. I say let him learn his lesson and leave him in the slammer overnight. Nothing like a night in jail to teach a kid a lesson.”

  
A raised eyebrow from Natasha ended his sentence.

  
“Very funny, not appreciated.” Steve jumped up with a sheet wrapped around himself. “Do you mind?” He waved them out of the room.

  
She tried a more supportive approach from the hallway, “At least he’s calling you. The last time he disappeared it took us a month, an army of Fury’s men and an abandoned horse to find him.”

  
Sam added, “The truck is gone. He took the truck again. How much damage?”

Steve shook his head as he pulled on his clothes and hurried past them towards the stairs, “That wasn’t him calling.”

Natasha grabbed his arm, “Who then and where are you going?”

The twitch in his jaw gave her a hint at his concern, “That was Stark.”

A disapproving tic crossed Sam's face, “How many nights is that now? No wonder Barnes took off.”

“Still not being helpful,” Steve said as he ran down the stairs and grabbed his jacket.

Natasha followed him,“Where is he?”

“Stark? In New York.”

“Steve.” She blocked his reach for the front door. “Where’s Barnes? Is he okay?”

Steve pulled in a breath, his gaze wandered to the floor then back to connect with her stare. “Buck’s at the Avengers Facility. He’s drunk, prowling the gates for the past hour or so, demanding to give himself up to Stark.”

Sam’s huffed breath ended with “Jesus, what an idiot.”

Natasha said it for Steve, “Still not helpful. Let me go with you.”

“No. It's better if I'm alone. I can handle...” he tripped over the word. “Shit, I hate when I say that.”

Natasha squeezed his arm, “It’s just a phrase, let me go with you.”

“No. Thanks. I’ve got this.”

Natasha and Sam watched as he sped off towards Stark's home.

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

Dark gray snow clouds gave way to a stripe of brightening blue as the morning light crept into a new day. Bucky knelt before the looming metal gates where he’d finally stumbled to his knees after spending far too long humiliating himself at the doors of the Avengers Facility.

He’d paced, prowled, demanded and begged to be let in, to see Stark, to pay for his sins. It never crossed his mind that anyone would deny him his punishment. His only company through the night had been the red blinking light over the surveillance camera and the faint whirr of the lens as it tracked his every move.

  
Burning shooting pain coursed from his toes to his hips, it passed into the dull ache then overwhelming numbness of cold and cramping immobility. A familiar sensation as the Soldier. Hours in the same position, waiting for fate to arrive. Time passed by his desperate quest for atonement, ignoring his guilt, leaving him abandoned to his demons, kneeling unacknowledged at the gates of his enemy.

Long wet tendrils of hair fell across his down-turned face, the moist drip caught in his upturned metal hand, his thoughts lost in the rivulets that formed across his palm, slipping between the plates. Snow soaked clothing clung heavy to his skin, weighing his body down, he shivered silently, the physical numbness spilling over to his mind. The Voice had gone silent, the one upside to his ill-thought out plan of surrender.

 

Steve pulled the car to stop a few feet away from where Bucky knelt. A tight grip on the steering wheel, deep breaths to steady the well-hidden anxiety that gnawed at his chest, a protected given, amplified with the return of Bucky to his world. A secret he'd never share with him.

The new fallen deep snow muffled the engine’s rattle, quieted his steps; he made a cautious angled approach. 

“Hey, what's going on?” He moved closer. 

“You’re soaked.” The flinch when Steve’s hand caressed the back of his head nearly imperceptible. “What are you doing here?” Steve knelt behind him, wrapping his arms tight around his shoulders, his face buried against his neck, “This isn’t the way.”

A shiver shook Bucky's body with the first muscle twitch he’d made in hours. Steve’s breath warmed the deep cold of his skin, “Come home. Let’s go home.” The coarse hairs of Steve's beard rubbed along his cheek, pulling a shaky breath from the prickling caress. He wrapped his hands around Steve's and leaned back into the only embrace he would allow.  
  
“I’m sorry. Stupid, stupid plan. How did you know?” Bucky’s voice stuttered through clenched teeth.

  
Steve rubbed hard along both arms, “We can talk about the merits of the plan later, let’s go home.” He pulled him to his feet, “Stark called me. Saw you on the surveillance camera.”

  
Bucky turned towards the gate, “Why didn’t he come out, face me. I want to do this. I need to do this.” He struggled to break from Steve’s grip. “I deserve this, he needs this.”

Steve held tight, “No. He's not here. Buck, staff called him. He called me." 

A tug on his sleeve pulled him towards the car, a protective arm around his waist, Steve didn't hide his touch. “Let’s get you home, warmed up.” He let a long hard stare linger on the surveillance camera before taking the driver's seat. The iris of the lens spun to refocus, the blinking red light flashing as he headed back down the road towards home. 

Bucky leaned on the window when they passed the truck teetering on the snowbank, "Wilson's gonna be pissed." 

"He'll get over it. You're keeping him young. Always pissing him off, otherwise, he'd be in the recliner channel surfing." A subdued shared laugh came to an end when they saw Natasha wave them down at the airport road. 

"Sorry boys, change in plans." She tossed two bottles of water in Bucky's lap, "Stark called. There's a hot lead on a shipment of Chitauri based weapons heading into Cartagena, Columbia the quinjet is gassed up and ready to go, I've got your go-bags in the car."

Bucky stared straight ahead as they followed Natasha down the barely plowed road to the tarmac. His muttered "This is payback,” was met by Steve’s agreeing “Without a doubt."

Steve kept his worry close as he glanced towards Bucky and replayed the warning call from Stark, “Your boy is stalking me, Rogers. When I’m ready to take what I’m due it’ll be on my damn terms, not his. I don't care about his regrets. Keep him on a short leash or I'll suddenly recall your address and text it to Secretary Ross.”

 

 

 

 


	2. I Heart Cartagena

"Tripadvisor says wear white while visiting South America. White reflects the sun and helps to keep you cooler." Sam's heartfelt reading of the travel guide he'd pulled up on his phone did nothing to help Natasha's mood. The rooftop surveillance spot he’d manned for the past few hours a sun-drenched, sauna without an inch of shade. It had one positive; he had five bars on his reception.

"You know I can hurt you. Right?" The quiet threat not because she didn't have enthusiasm for it; her low grumbled statement spoken less than five feet away from the target of their day-long reconnaissance. "The least Stark could have done is given us white T-shirts." 

"With our names on them? Go Team Nomad?" Steve offered as he scanned the festive crowd despite their eyes on the two targets souvenir shopping. His sense of what could go wrong never stronger.

Natasha halfway faked her interest in the bejeweled bikinis hanging along the yellow wall outside the gift shops lining the tourist-packed plaza; she fingered the dangling beads and let the targets pass. Her attempt to blow a limp sweat-soaked wisp of hair from her face met with humidity driven resistance. An under-her-breath, “I hate Stark,” drew a huffed laugh from Sam and a sigh from Steve.

Bucky maintained his usual resistant comm-link silence.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

“Beebee, come look at this!” The Rubenesque woman’s voice told a history of smoke-filled bars and a long affair with straight-up no ice whiskey. She waved a short-fingered hand in the air, a generalized summoning gesture that anyone in the crowd of cruise ship patrons around her could have mistaken as a call to her side. She never looked up from the object of her discovery. “Beebee! Where are you?”

The question thrown into the outdoor market appeared rhetorical to her shopping companions until a svelte-looking figure dressed in a white sundress and too-large for her face sunglasses slid up to her side, “Maymay, I’m right here.” Her chin nested conveniently on the bare-skinned shoulder to peer at her companion’s newly found treasure. “What the hell is that?”

“This my dear is what we have been looking for all our lives. Luck.” She picked up the heavy faux-bronze replica of the sculpture in the Plaza de Santo Domingo and ran her fingers over the ample curves and dips, allowing one pad to linger on the rounded breast. “This my love is Gertrude. Our own private version to bring home with us. We’ll find the real version soon. I have the maps right here.” She patted the bright-colored woven bag that hung across her body.

“Of course we will, I have complete faith in your navigational skills.” Beebee cooed close to her ear, followed by a peck of her lips against her cheek; she disappeared into the cooler depths of the market.

Maymay cradled her intended purchase with the kind of awe that most tourists reserved for the emerald shops, she made her way to the vendor. Her flowing tangerine on white linen skirt brushed past the black-clad leg of Natasha browsing the “I Heart Cartagena” T-shirts. The faint brush of Natasha's hand across her back drew nothing more than a quick glimpse over her shoulder and a soft smile. Something Nat easily returned before checking her phone. "Well, I've tagged her. Now we see if it sticks to linen." 

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

Bucky perched on the peak of a sloped red tile roof; the tallest building overlooking the plaza where the targets had stalled in their sightseeing. He admitted the vantage point was good, tall building, decent sightlines but the exit route was cluttered, noisy and the comfort level for a long haul was lacking. His voiced objection at the assignment was quickly pulled back when he saw the smirk it evoked from Wilson. He shook his head and dutifully climbed the stairs then scaled the delicate tiled roof to access the peak. “This sucks,” a mumbled last word directed at Steve.

The Winter Soldier could kneel on a flat tar-paper roof for days if needed. Torrential rain, unrelenting sun, frigid cold; without food or water; hurt or whole; didn’t matter. The distinct thick material was strangely comforting. Black grainy surfaces, soft and hot in the sun, silently giving to his steps. Firm but still forgiving in the cold. He’d spent countless hours studying the nuanced textures and colors, learning the distinct odor emitted in various weather conditions, all while waiting for a target. His drill-down study of roofing materials served no real purpose except to bring him better companionship than the Voice on those long stretches of nothingness that inevitably ended in an explosive single pull of the trigger. The sensation of his knees or ass pressed into the soft give of a tar and asphalt roof filled him with a calmness that settled his focus down to only one thing. The mission. The brittle clay tiles had nothing on the lay of good flat tar roof.

“Damn seat-of-our-pants assignments,” Bucky muttered at the row of wide-eyed pigeons that resettled along the roof line once he joined their ranks. The comment was enough to gain their cooing response, but not loud enough for the team to hear. He squatted next to a gable that offered slight cover. A quick scan of the people below gave him all he needed. A view of Romanova shopping the smallest bathing suits he’d ever seen; Steve in his wide-shouldered, dare-you-to-get-in-my-face pose on the far side of the plaza; and the two middle-aged women who may or may not be their targets pawing through the vast array of trinkets being offered.

He turned to his private audience. “Stupid noisy roof, no cover, bad footing, I hate this. Okay for pigeons sure, you’re comfortable, I can see that. This is just gonna be cramps for hours, I hate it.” A white-headed bird tilted its eye towards him, a clear invitation to continue, “Stark’s mission. His mission, since when do we work for Stark? I follow Steve, that’s it. It should be Steve’s mission, or at least Nomad’s mission.” He leaned towards his feathered companion, “Not Stark’s mission, nope, you know what this is really? It’s the no-plan, how-dare-you-pound-on-my- door, Barnes-you’re-a-complete-loser mission.”

Bucky turned to study the sea of humanity below him, he rolled his vibranium shoulder. An unconscious move to dissipate the shame filling his chest when his drunken self-generated humiliation at Stark’s gates rolled into his memory. He forced his mind back to the nuts and bolts of this assignment: Find the operatives who would lead them to the Chitauri-based weapons, confiscate them, extract information, neutralize the enemy.

“We can do this. Surveillance, piece of cake, no killing, easy.” His words met by the low rumble of cooing. “Cake? Sorry, no cake. No snacks on this flight, guys. Hey, at least we’ve got a breeze.” The one up-side to his assigned location. A steady ocean breeze cooling the abundant amount of sweat that soaked his clothing and dripped down his back. “Nothing like wearing a dark blue leather jacket in a tropical climate.” He dismissed his recent consumption of two quarts of vodka as contributing to his current discomfort.

A glance towards Wilson perched on the nearby roof of a glow-in-the-dark yellow stucco row-house provoked another pigeon directed comment, “You guys see that dork over there? He flies too. Look at him. Hey, Birdman, are you sweating as much as I am? That flight-pack’s gotta be hot. You’ve got those damn goggles on, does the sweat pool in there?” He pulled in a long breath, “Mine did that too, the goggles, the mask, it was hard to breathe, fighting, running; suffocating.” His voice and thoughts trailed off.

Bucky’s words were mostly whispered out loud, some kept inside his head. None of it heard by the team over the active comm-link that he’d reluctantly agreed to use. There was that annoying ring in his ear from three months earlier when Mother used the stun prod on his neck and shorted out his earpiece. The memory drew a shudder, but the tinnitus pissed him off since it always peaked in the head-down, butt-up, best sex position with Steve. He groaned at the recollected snarking Voice comment, _“Don’t do anything you can’t tell your Mother, Soldier.”_

He digressed for a moment of gratitude that the Voice appeared to be more hung-over than he was and had gone completely quiet since they left New York.

His insistent “I don’t need any more damn voices in my head,” comm-link protest on the quinjet a few hours earlier, handled by Steve’s perfect moves. Hand tangled in Bucky’s hair, head tugged back, a tongue running up exposed throat, the stinging bite to the nape of his neck. Steve's maneuver never failing to melt stubborn resolve. The ensuing circling arm that snaking around his waist slithered up his chest to constrict his body back into the firm, and unyielding warmth that was Steve withered his resistance. The earpiece slipping into place while he was still a rubbery melted mess, head lolling back on a broad shoulder. Bucky sighed at how easy it was for Steve to get what he wanted. The lack of his ability to stick to “No” as an answer was a no-brainer trade-off when it meant Steve’s hands would explore his body. 

The general musings about Steve touching him, sent his gaze to the far corner of the open area below, he sorted through the white-clad crowd of tourists for the tall, muscular figure that hovered on the fringe of their activities. He needed to lay eyes on him every few minutes to keep himself grounded. The undulating mass of people blocked his view. A bite of his lip in anticipation, a quick rise in his simmering anxiety as he searched until he heard his own choked, “Steve?” whisper across the comm-link.

“Here, Northeast corner.” The quick response accompanied by the movement of a darkly dressed man with a beard and tousled blond hair stepping out from under an overhanging balcony. He nodded towards Bucky’s position.

“Right here.” The reassuring sound of his voice filled his ear and brought him back to his favorite pastime. Eyes closed recollection of hips pressed behind him. The sharp bite of teeth on his back leaving a dark bruise, hidden from his eye, but appreciated through the distinct lustful look on Steve’s face as he fingered the soon-to-fade spot for as long as it lasted. He embraced the image of Steve’s half-lidded eyes following his hand as he explored his skin, leaving fleeting evidence that he had claimed some hidden patch of Bucky’s flesh. The quickly faded bruise on his inner thigh, the mouth-pulled welt in his groin, bite marks laid across his chest, all of it made his gut twitch and caused a hint of blood to pool between his legs. He wondered what the Voice would have to say about his new found mission distraction: Sex with Steve.

The huffed laugh caused his foot to slip on the delicate red-clay tiles. Every twitch and step seemed to dislodge ancient chips of stone to scurry down the roof and over the edge, raining down pebbles and dust onto anyone below him. A death sentence for an assassin. Bucky’s brain itched at the poor choice, reminding him of how much he detested his current assigned location. He looked longingly at the deep blue three-story building at the other end of the plaza. The one with the alluring, very flat, dark gray-black tar paper and asphalt covered roof. The temptation overwhelming. The justification minimal; the sun’s moving, less glare. He looked at the row of pigeons that had settled into a group nap. “As Romanova would say, ‘Sorry, boys, change in plans.’ Thanks for letting me hang with you.” His skittering move down the tiles caused a torrent of broken clay pebbles to clatter in his wake and tumble to the ground below. Although his departure disrupted the flock's midday nap, his assassin skills didn’t fail him, the upturned eyes of tourists didn't see him leave.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

"We're having lunch now, boys. It looks like we're starting with shrimp scampi, a nice red wine, and a few minutes to look over the entrees. Can I get you anything?" Natasha held her position in the shade of the side street market; she varied her perusing from the postcards to the bikinis to the Panama hats. Then over again. A quick glance towards the rooftops reassured her of Sam’s position. The red clay roof empty except for a long line of pigeons.

The mention of food got Sam’s fading attention; he worked his travel app, “I’ll take the Ceviche Cartagenero to start off. Steve’s gonna keep it simple, all protein; steak, followed by scallops followed by octopus.”

“Hey, Barnes you’ve gotta try the cocadas.” Natasha scanned the skyline, hoping he’d answer. “Talk about a sugar high; that’s coconut candy, they make coconut ice cream too. Right up your alley.”

“No sugar highs for him, he never sleeps anyway.” Sam interjected, “I’d guess he needs hair of the dog right about now. There’s a restaurant here that serves ‘The Painkiller’ pineapple infused rum.” His groaned stretch filled their ears before he changed the subject, "Are we sure about these two being our targets? Just wondering out loud, this was a bit rushed, you know, Barnes pissing Stark off just when he seemed to let the whole thing rest. Not that he should let it rest, I mean it's a big deal, but then again Barnes was brainwashed after all. How could Stark still want to kill him? Wait, I live with him and maybe I can see Stark's point. No disrespect to either of them. We didn’t have much time to confirm this intel, so maybe...”

 

“What the hell are we doing here?” Bucky’s abrupt irritation laced out-burst assaulted their hearing. An uncharacteristic contribution to their usual three-way-only comm discussions.

Sam sighed a rebuttal, “We are surveilling our targets. That’s what we’re doing.” A subtle adjustment to his position barely relieved the calf cramps as he squatted on the roof. 

Bucky snarled “No kidding? Is that it? I had no idea.” His last word ended with a slight rasped squeak. “I thought we were here to intercept a weapons shipment, or an alien invasion or stop an alien weapons interception; something other than babysitting two tourists wandering lost all over Bogota for the past seven hours.”

“Cartagena.” Steve closed his eyes and allowed an internal groan of regret as soon as the correction fell out of his mouth.

“What? Cartagena?” Bucky croaked again. “Oh, sorry. My bad. Wrong sun-drenched South American location. Bogota, Cartagena, Sao Paolo, Buenos Aires. Is there a difference? No. Not really. I’ve been to all of them, I think? Anyway, they’re all hot, crowded, bright, too bright. Stupid yellows, reds, blues. Tourists, narrow streets, crap sight-lines. Confusion and sweat, shit safe house, snakes, handlers didn’t know what they were doing...”

Sam's unwanted observations mingled with Bucky's monologue, “Okay, he’s losing it, great, we’ve got a fully armed sniper on the roof, with a metal arm, and he’s going down the tubes. He even used a number not divisible by three."

Steve left the corner of the plaza and paced to scan the tile covered roof. “Nat, do you have eyes on him? I can’t see him. He was up there a few minutes ago. I saw him." He held his rising worry close, “Sam, can you see him? Buck? What’s your location? Answer me."

Sam added, "Nope. No sign of him. He's a damn ninja. One second he's on that roof next second...gone."

Natasha’s disconcerting laughter cut across Steve's worry. She muttered with a clear sultry tone, “Southeast corner, lover boy, blue building, roof. I’ll be there in five, my dear." The last words purred.

"I take it our target's standing in front of you. Did she make you?" Steve spun around to try and lay eyes on Natasha. "Sam, you got her?" 

"I got eyes on her. She’s got it under control. I'll get to her. Barnes is your problem."

 

Natasha held her phone to her ear and tossed her head as she laughed. Her face-to-face encounter with their target at the Panama hat pushcart was entirely unexpected. A tickle of suspicion crossed her mind as she replayed the last few minutes and wondered if Beebee had spotted the bug she had planted on Maymay's skirt. Or maybe the full-on black head-to-toe outfit in the middle of a sea of white brought her the unwanted attention. She smiled coyly at her and ducked to dig through the stock below the cart. “Be careful, Steve, he’s heavily armed.” She could feel if not see Steve’s rebuking glance. “Right, you know that, besides, I doubt he’ll shoot you. Sam on the other hand.”

“No worries I’m not going over there. I just might shoot him back.” Sam added as he ditched the flight pack and ran to join her. 

 

Steve turned his attention towards the blue painted hotel. “Enough. No one is shooting anyone, just keep an eye on the targets, I’m heading for him.” The trip across the open square through the throng of people came to a halt when his gaze fell on Bucky as he prowled the rooftop. Growing frightened glances from the surrounding people directed towards the menacing figure on the low roof pulled at Steve’s attention. He kept his focus on Bucky; the rolling, pacing stride that stood out against the brilliant azure skyline. Bucky, long hair tousled by the ocean breeze, a sniper rifle held across his body, pointed to the ground; the dark leather jacket; the blazing sun glinting splintered reflections from the dark and gold-hued metal arm. There he was, alive; memories intact, damaged, frightening, scared, surviving, beautiful; and he was with him, in his bed, inseparable.

A stolen fleeting moment to let it all sink in. He thought about the last three months of exploring every angle and line of his body, finding their way as lovers; learning how to navigate Bucky's post-Hydra world of Voices and medications and uncertainties. A smile crept across his face when he thought about how far they'd come together. 

"Steve? Are you there?" The uncertain question broke across his consciousness. He blinked to fight the glare from the sun that sat just over Bucky's shoulder. What came into focus cut his smile short.

Bucky stood wide-stance on the edge of the roof; the sole of his boot dangled over the lip; Steve thought he could see the steel gray of his eyes, as he stared right through him. The rifle held ready across his body.

"You trust me right? Nod, just nod that you can hear me."

Bucky's head moved a hint of a nod.

"Good, I saw that. Don't move. Don't do anything. I am on my way."

 

 <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

Steve slipped a cautious hand under the hem of Bucky's jacket, "Let's go, get down from there." The tug to pull him back ended with his arms wrapped around him, they stumbled towards the scant amount of shade offered by an air conditioning vent. His quiet order to "Sit down" obeyed as Bucky slid to let his back rest against the vent. He sucked down the first bottle of water. Steve squatted in front of him and offered a bit of truth, “You look like hell.”

“Gee thanks.”

“Sure. I figure you should at least get some honest feedback after that stunt you pulled.” Steve settled in next to him.

“Is this the lecture portion of the program?” Bucky poured the last gulp of water on his head. 

“Nope. It’s the genuinely curious and concerned portion.”

“I’m all good here. This ain’t my first time. I’ve been in a lot worse shape, worse conditions. You think a little sun and lack of water stopped me before?” Bucky wiped his hand across his forehead, pulling the sweat away from his eyes.

“Not what I’m talking about.” Steve shook his head and let his arms rest on his knees. The pause to let Bucky speak went by silently. He tried again, “What were you thinking?” 

“That it’s stinking hot here? That I sucked down a couple of gallons of water on the quinjet and I’ve gotta piss, but I’m up here on this damn roof watching Wilson doing a crap job of looking discreet while wearing goggles and a flight-pack. Dork. He’s killing the tourist trade at the pushcarts on the Plaza, impersonating a vulture on that roof.”

“You were prowling like a wild animal up here; quite the show down below. Not so great for the covert operation we're on but cheap entertainment for the cruise ship crowd. So I’m asking again what were you thinking? Going to Stark’s place drunk?”

“Not bad, Rogers. It only took you twelve hours and eighteen minutes to ask those questions.”

“I thought I’d give you time to clear the alcohol.” Steve handed him another water.

“Thanks, considerate of you.” He pushed the bottle away.

“That’s me. Considerate Steve.”

“Perfect Steve,” Bucky muttered and let his head fall back against the vent.

“Cut the crap. What were you thinking?. You were the one that insisted I wear a comm when I met with him about the data. You were ready to kill him if he touched me. Two nights later you’re giving yourself up? How do you suppose I feel about that? Finding you there? Stark could have had Interpol, the CIA and the FBI on you in under thirty minutes.”

“He could have tried,” Bucky muttered, rolled to his feet and paced away.

Steve followed to block his escape, “Talking big for someone who got caught by a ninety-year-old woman.'"

Bucky stepped closer, nearly touching the dark uniform that stretched across Steve's chest. "Asshole. She's a Widow, not a woman and not your average ninety-year-old. More like us than say one of those cruise ship grannies."

Steve didn't back away, "You didn’t think to use the main entrance to the Avengers Facility. The unlocked main entrance.”

“Fuck you, Rogers." Bucky stepped away.

Steve grabbed both biceps and tugged him back, a hesitant move to brush close to Bucky's ear, he whispered, “Looking forward to that.”

"What? Still? I screwed up."

"Of course. Why would you think anything else?"

"I dunno, I embarrassed you, I'm a loser, crazy, a mess, any number of things, like rescuing me at the gates of Stark's home. Pathetic."

Steve cupped Bucky's face between his hands, a studied review of fatigue and insecurity with a flicker of hope that pulled him closer. The whispered, “You know I hear voices,” deterred the kiss for as long as it took Steve to smile and answer, “No kidding. I don’t care.”

Bucky’s faint moan, the searing grip of metal fingers dragging on his hip overrode Steve’s intent to make the kiss a token brush of lips in the middle of a mission. A quick chastising thought that he should have known better than to allow the hint of Bucky’s taste in his mouth, the feel of his body pressed close to his own, the open mouth invitation overrode Steve’s logic. An arm around Bucky’s neck, holding him to the kiss, not allowing the force of his tongue delving deeper to knock him back by even a breath. The soft murmured sounds of exploring mouths, discipline falling to desire, resolve giving way to want all floated across the live comm-link to entertain two unwilling listeners.

Sam interjected, “Okay, I’ll say it. I know Nat’s busy with the mission target, you two remember the mission, right? Well here goes, we can hear you. Really, we can. Every disgusting moist inappropriate second of it. Enough, end it, please. Rant over.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rubinesque: Applied to a woman who has similar proportions to those in paintings by the Flemish painter Peter Paul Ruben; attractively plump; a woman who is alluring or pretty but without the waif-like body or athletic build presently common in media.


	3. Kiev In My Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Pambot3000 for her tireless support, research, fangirling and overall love of all things Stucky Forever!

Bucky didn’t want to extract his tongue from Steve’s mouth, but the words had to be said, “I hate Wilson.”

“We need to go. People saw you.” Steve’s effort to sound decisive was apparent but the tense bicep locked around his neck and the fist-full of butt cheek that hoisted his foot off the roof showed that Steve was sincerely conflicted.

“So let’s go.” Bucky dug fingers under a belt, and over the waistband until the warm metal settled a wide claiming mark across a muscled abdomen.

“Okay, we’re going.” Steve’s confident tone waned as the heat from the metal spread across his belly. The offered cherished, but annoying smirk against his mouth didn’t help him concentrate.

Bucky conceded, “You first. You’ve got me in a headlock, and I’ve lost circulation in my ass.”

“Your hand is melting the skin in my groin.” He moved to let their eyes meet; the intense want that stared back at him, kept the stalemate going.

 

Sam interrupted, “I am going to puke. Really I am. And I hate you too Barnes. You are incorrigible, out of control pain in the ass. I hate to interrupt the foreplay but Natasha’s slow dancing with target number one, my wings are on the roof, and target number two is on her third coconut daiquiri, could we all focus here? Did I mention the Cartagena police are on their way? No doubt searching for the crazed over-sexed sniper everyone was gawking at a few minutes ago.”

 

Steve’s arm relaxed, he slow dragged his hand through Bucky’s hair, letting the thick softness slip across his fingertips. “Copy that. On our way.”

Bucky groaned a protest, “Wait, just a couple of seconds more.” The warmth of Steve’s skin as he pushed his hand deeper sent a faint electric pulse coursing up his arm, fingertips digging into flesh pulled a quick breath from Steve. He lunged to catch that breath.

Steve staggered back, grabbed his wrist and tugged at his hand, “Hold it, you are making this hard.”

Bucky muttered, eyes closed, his mouth chasing Steve’s, “That would be the whole point.”

He straight-armed him by the front of his jacket, “That’s it. Hand out of my pants. Sam is right you are incorrigible. We need to go.”

Bucky muttered, “Wilson is never right.” As Steve dragged him and the sniper rifle towards the fire escape to the fast-approaching sound of sirens.

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

“You look hot.” The satin-voiced appraisal came from target number one, Beebee as she stepped boldly into Natasha’s personal space. Her liquid green eyes began a full-body caress that ran imagined fingers through curled red hair, slid along the slope of her neck, teased the skin of her breasts, to snag a fingernail on a partly undone zipper. A small upturn to the corner of her mouth as she continued her visual reconnaissance, lingering on hips, resting a brief moment on her crotch before returning with an approving smile to stare unapologetically into Natasha’s eyes.

“Thank you?” Natasha’s voice crackled.

The woman tucked her sunglasses to hang heavy between her breasts, “Oh, yes, well. I meant it’s hot out for all black. But the other hot works nicely as well.”

“Sorry. I may have misunderstood you.” Natasha replied with a coy tilt of her head and fleeting smirk.

“I think you understood me perfectly.” Beebee circled Natasha; her hand teased the back of her neck. “Where are you staying?”

“Jetted in, no hotel, just here for a quick anonymous rendezvous.” She let her head fall back to brush against Beebee’s shoulder. “And you?”

“Cruise ship. We leave port in the morning but until then...” A shrugged invitation.

Natasha smiled as she tugged the sunglasses from between Beebee’s breasts and slipped them on her head. “Sounds perfect.”

"I saw you fingering the bikinis, there’s a lovely shop over there, dark, cool, they serve these tantalizing fruity drinks, we can try bikinis on one another.” Beebee wrapped a pinkie finger around Natasha’s and pulled her down the walkway.

Her final word to the team before ditching the comm, “Maaji’s right? I wandered past it earlier. I just need to warn you I’ve got a scar or two undercover.”

 

“Wait for me, just wait.” Sam’s begging slipped across Steve and Bucky’s hearing but was lost in the deep threads of Natasha’s jumpsuit pocket where she’d slipped the comm right before Beebee’s tongue licked a wet circle around her earlobe. “Nat, what the hell are you doing?” The last he saw of her was Beebee’s hand around her waist as they strolled into a cave-like shop at the end of the plaza.

 

Steve told him what he already knew, “She’s going undercover, Sam. Stick with her. We’ll catch up after dark.”

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

“You never answered me.” Steve peered between metal panels to scan the narrow streets below the balcony. A quick trip off the roof, through the crowded streets and down an alley brought them to an abandoned second story apartment walled in by scaffolding and sheet metal. The approaching wail of police sirens drove them to take refuge.

“What was the question? You know I have memory issues.” Bucky deflected as he knelt beside him using the scant amount of light that slipped behind the barriers to break down his rifle and tuck it in a backpack.

Steve gave him a pointed glance before checking the street again, “Let’s start with why you went to Stark’s last night?”

“I couldn’t sleep. You said he doesn’t sleep much either I thought we could hang together.”

“Asking again, Buck. Why go to Stark’s place?”

Bucky dragged in a breath and sank to the floor, knees up, his back to the wall, “I owe him. You know damn well why.”

“Now? Like that?” Steve adjusted his stance to let his calf press against Bucky’s thigh, a side effect of losing him more than once. The need to connect, a hand in his hair, hip to hip, thigh to calf, some physical touch meant to remind himself that Bucky existed. Straining eyes kept watch on the darkening street.

“Overdue. It’s overdue.” He wrapped his arm around Steve’s leg, dug his fingers in behind his knee.

“We were fine until he called. Now your guilt feelings are enough to throw yourself at his feet?”

“Yea, I guess so. Maybe you were fine. I’m never fine.”

“Come on; you know what I mean.”

Bucky sighed, “He’s calling you. Every night. He knows we’re together, knows where we live.”

Steve raked his nails across Bucky’s scalp, “And if he wanted to arrest us, he would have done that by now.”

“Or he’s just waiting til we least expect it.” Bucky moved to let Steve explore more of his head. “It’s like he knows right when we’re having sex. Like he’s spying on us.”

The wash of paranoia that swept across Bucky’s mind sent a tremor pulsing into Steve’s calf, the head shake under his fingers, and the faint odor of sweat sent a clear message. He tried to reassure him, “He’s not spying on us. He works at night, and in the day, pretty much all the time.”

Bucky frowned, “You say that, but you don’t know for sure. Remember the tunnels in Boston? He was there; he cut into Fury’s comm-link, we both saw him, saw the arc reactor light. Don’t lie; you kept me from going to him then.”

Steve looked down, he pulled his head back so they could see one another, “I saw him, yes, and I don’t want you giving yourself up to him or anyone. He could kill you, or lock you up for the rest of your very long life. Just think, no conjugal visits.”

Bucky tugged his head away, “Okay, I’ll give you that, it was a stupid plan.”

Steve turned to watch the street, “I know you want redemption, haven’t I said I’m willing to help? Isn’t that what we’re doing right now? It’s as if you stopped trusting me.”

“I trust you. No one else, no one. Just you.”

Steve leaned his shoulder against the wall, he took in the shadowed figure at his feet, “You promised no self-harm, no leaving without talking first.”

Bucky shrugged, “Right. Those are guidelines, not rules. Not promises.”

“Bullshit.” He tugged Bucky’s head back again to see his face, “We’ll come back to that. Let’s talk about being reckless.”

“Okay, mom.” He pulled his arm from around Steve’s leg and ducked away again.

“Not your mom.” Steve knelt next to him, “I am your friend. Lover. Partner. That gives me a say in whether you live or die by your own hand. You’re the one who takes exception to my reckless plans, feeling’s mutual.”

“I said I was wrong. It was a stupid plan.”

“We’ve established that. Now, why did you abandon the first surveillance point.”

Bucky groaned, “Bad footing. Damn pigeons. I like the smell of tar paper roofs? I don’t know.”

“Great reasons to switch but why without talking to me first?”

“I hate comms, never used them, no one ever expected me to talk.” The darkness filled in around them as the sun fell behind the buildings; Bucky’s voice went low, “They didn’t want me to talk, if I talked it was to answer a question, give a simple direction; go over there, I have her, you take him. Otherwise only listen, only obey.”

Steve brought his knees under Bucky’s thigh; his hand slipped behind his neck. “We’re not Hydra.”

He drew in a long breath, “I hear voices, Steve, you know that. I can’t think with all that chatter in my ears. Romanova and the coconut candy, Wilson’s wearing white, Team Nomad T-shirts. What the fuck.”

“Now I know you heard us. Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?”

“I dunno, it was an impulse, there was an army of pigeons staring at me. I got paranoid.”

Steve’s quiet laugh was short, “I meant why did you leave last night, you went to Stark’s. We’ve been through this before, the last time, Sokolov found you, tortured you. You promised not to leave without talking to me first, and I find you at Stark’s door, shit-faced drunk, begging to die.”

A streetlight flickered on to cast faint lines of yellow through the gaps between the metal covering. Steve watched Bucky shrug, then bite his lip. He waited.

“I lied.” Bucky shrugged again. “That’s it. I lied. I just wanted to get you off my back.”

Steve pulled in a quiet deep breath, a flush of heat crossed his skin, a quick thought of being glad that the dim light hid the flash of pain and anger. He withdrew his hand from his neck. “Lied? I don’t believe you. I don’t.”

“Well, it’s the truth, not lying now. I was lying then.”

Bucky’s fake bravado didn't convince Steve, but the current lie cut him. “Look at me. No really look at me.” He cupped a hand to Bucky’s head and pulled him to make eye contact. “Do you know how it felt to wake up and find you gone? After everything we’ve been through.”

Bucky pulled his head away.

“No look at me.” Steve tugged again to turn his head, “Do you have any idea how it hurt to know you did that on your own. No net over your head, no choppers swooping in, no fighting for you. Just you walking away.”

He let go with Bucky’s whispered, “Don’t force me.”

 

Sam’s quiet interruption, “Nomad, comms are live.” Cued Steve to cut the mics on both of their comms.

 

Steve dropped his hands on his thighs, his skin flushed red, “Here’s what I think. It’s easier to wallow in the guilt, to want punishment than it is to forgive yourself.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You want to get caught. Going to Stark’s drunk; running instead of trusting me; prowling the rooftop in broad daylight instead of working as a team. That’s it isn’t it? You’d rather be caught and punished or killed than grow up and accept that none of it was your fault.”

“Asshole.” Bucky’s shove to Steve’s chest knocked him on his haunches. Their scramble to get up ended with Steve pushing him to the wall. He grabbed his wrists but didn’t struggle.

Steve pressed his forehead to Bucky’s, the pinpoint beam of the street light enough to let their eyes meet, “Truth then. Say it. You want to be caught and thrown in The Raft. Or killed or both. Right?”

Bucky pushed against Steve’s wrists; his gaze fell away, “Let go of me.”

“That’s it? You’re not answering.” Steve fisted his hand in the front of his jacket; Bucky staggered forward from the pull. Steve spoke close to his ear, “Do me a favor then. Don’t do it on my watch. I don’t want to have to see that. Go sneak off to get caught or killed because I can’t watch you die again. I can’t stand by feeling helpless while you kill yourself. Can you do that one thing for me?”

Bucky let a heartbeat pass; the tremor he felt wasn’t his own, this time it came through Steve’s hands on his chest.

Steve pushed him away. “So, you are currently on my watch. In case there’s any doubt. Let’s catch up with Nat and Sam and finish this so you can turn yourself in or get shot or killed, or whatever it is that’s gonna make you feel better.” He headed across the room to leave.

Bucky didn’t follow. “Steve. Wait.”

“What?”

He let a long moment pass, “I’m sorry. It’s not what you think.”

Steve didn’t turn around, “What then?”

Bucky's hesitant words, “Hydra made me into a monster, a cold, heartless freak of nature. I did things that I will take to my grave; I couldn’t have you know.”

He spoke more to himself than out loud, pulling Steve across the room. 

“You’d run from me if you knew it all. That’s the death I’m afraid of, you walking away.”

Steve hovered close now, standing still listening.

Bucky’s foot rearranged trash on the floor buying himself time. “You know what scares me? You do. How I feel about you. How it feels when I lose track of you.” He sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. “It scares me to be alone. So why am I pushing you away? Why break my promise to talk to you?” He shuffled his feet side to side, his swaying form moving in the faint shafts of light. “If I went to you first, you’d try and save me; you’d do some damn heroic Steve Rogers thing like you always do to save someone who doesn’t deserve saving. The way you look at me sometimes, that sad look, like I’m gone already, lost to you. I hate that look.”

Steve reached out to touch him; "No, never, you're wrong about that. I never want to lose you."

Bucky shrugged away.

“I didn't tell you why I tried to kill myself. And you, the perfect Captain America never asked.”

Bucky heard Steve’s soft “Not perfect.” He felt the shadowy outline move in front of him, close enough to feel his breath warm on his cheek. He tapped at his temple, “The voices were bad then, loud, insistent, unrelenting. They wanted blood,”  A careful press of his finger on Steve’s chest, “Your blood. I fought it a long time. I tried.” The words and images moving his feet to pace, but Steve caught his arms and held him still. “I didn’t try to kill myself because I was weak.” He leaned close to Steve’s ear, “Or pathetic, although I am pretty pathetic, it wasn’t because I needed some kind of childish attention.” A full-palmed hand laid on Steve’s chest, “I did it for you. I couldn’t fight the voice that told me to kill you. I did it --- to protect you. So I tricked it, I agreed and shoved you out the door. I wanted to die to keep you safe. I’m not telling you that to score points; I just thought you should know, I’m not that big of a loser.” He pulled in a deep breath, a tremor raced through his body, fingertips brushed Steve’s cheek, “I’d die for you. For what it’s worth.”

 

He flinched when Steve’s hands darted towards his face. The force of Steve’s mouth covering his own knocked him backward, dragging Steve with him, they landed hard against the wall, the whack to his head sent bright stars cascading in his vision. A rush of panic tore through his mind, sent fire to his skin and let the last drop of his sweat break across his chest. He struggled to right his thoughts, not sure if this was anger or sex; the rush of confusion brought back long suppressed dreams of his not-willing consent to hard sex and angry hands in long forgotten places. But the accosting faces whose names resided deep within his memory were tucked away for the great day of atonement if it ever came. His panting response to the deep engulfing thrusts of Steve’s tongue into his mouth, pulled an aching moan and an irrational thought to drive a knee into his groin to end the assault; except he could taste Steve in his mouth, that distinct, engulfing flavor of something fresh and clean and maybe tart, a lot tart; all Steve. He refrained from kneeing him and let the sensation of his tongue being shoved down his throat to near choking levels just happen. He opened his mouth, letting him in, inviting in this hungry consuming taking of himself. He wanted this, ached for it.

The thought crossed his mind to pull at Steve’s clothes, the fumbled attempt faltered when Steve tore down the zipper on his jacket, yanked it over his shoulders, the force drove his head into the wall again, bringing yet another cascade of red stars this time.  A haunting recollection of the star that resided on his shoulder for so many years; he wondered if it was a coincidence but the sensation of his arms pinned to his sides when the jacket only made it to his elbows, pulled him back into the current moment of impending sex. Chasing stars in the darkness, hands on his body, the unseen face, he forced himself to drag in long slow breaths trying to ward off a chance of loss of consciousness.

Steve’s warm breath sent heat across his throat, the sharp stinging bite of teeth on his flesh, the heavy press of a body lying on his chest, his arms restrained, tore at the old memories, he struggled to remember the safe words they’d discussed, his brain refusing to help. He tucked his face into the neck that presented itself in the darkness, a deep breath pulled in the scent, familiar, calming, the smell of flesh that filled his every night for the past three months, the smell that wafted across a century for him alone. He knew even in the darkness of his nightmares that this was Steve. He fought to keep his mind from the overwhelming panic that teased around the edges.

Rough fingers tugged hard at his waistband; his hips pulled from the wall, his body moved as if he had no weight. The hands tore his pants open, a knee forced against his leg, hips pressed firm to his hips, he pushed forward without thinking, his body craving the contact, his mind uncertain if it was real or just another recollection or worse. He tried to stifle the groan when Steve’s hand covered his cock, slow-stroking his thumb down the shaft, slipping fingers deeper to fill his palm with Bucky’s skin. The shadowed figure holding him, caressing him, felt and smelled and tasted like Steve, but the nagging, unrelenting tickle at the back of his brain said maybe not.

Bucky blinked hard to bring his focus under control, the darkness gave him shadows, some unmoving objects that were mundane at his first glance in the waning sunlight, they took on macabre waffling forms now in the scant dancing lights of the streets. He searched with growing desperation for a glance at the man stroking his cock at the moment, the one whose hand was wrapped around his throat; his heartbeat throbbed into his head and his groin as his body gave the man what he wanted. A flash of bright lights and laughter, naked bodies moving around him, touching him; the hot flash of panic came over him again. The old familiar roll of nausea clenched in his gut, he gasped and choked and tried to say something, anything, to call Steve’s name, to find the safe word. It was gone, all of it. Words, rational thought, plans. All that was left was fear, and pain and the mixed confusion of wanting to come but only if this was Steve. The silent scream building in his head cut short:

“ _Kiev. It’s Kiev. The safe word is Kiev.”_

Bucky blurted it out as soon as the Voice reminded him. “Kiev.” He choked it out again, louder. “Kiev. Steve? please be Steve.”

Steve's voice loud in his ear, “Buck? Are you okay? Yes, god, yes it’s me, it’s okay.”

Bucky rolled his face into Steve’s hand when he stroked his cheek; he pressed his mouth against him when they found their way in the dark. He muttered, “Don’t stop, fuck, I’m coming,” As Steve laughed softly and pulled him through what was real.


	4. Goodbye Cartagena

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Readers. Thank you so much for following along! Once again hearts and hugs to Pambot3000 for all of her support!

Life as Steve Rogers involved sweating. He accepted, ignored, and often reveled in the whole body experience of radical physical exertion that pulled the hot wetness from every pore of his being. Cleansing, freeing, satisfying; the consuming sweat-evoking experience now had nothing to do with work or the heat of a South American city. It was all about Bucky. The full-press wash of sweat that covered his body under the uniform came as the unintended response to the post-come whisper filling his ear in the dark abandoned apartment.

“Let me take care of you, Stevie.”

The faint pleading tone a whispered heat of uncertainty; a counterpoint to sure and searching hands that tugged aside his clothes, pulled at his flesh, claiming him; it never failed to tear down his sense of decorum, shred his will, and muddle his considerable focus. Bucky ruled all of Steve.

“I got you, let me do this.”

Slacking muscles found support against the wall as Bucky flipped their stance. Mission tight abs weakened under the cold-warm dichotomy of Bucky’s hands as they dug deep into his flesh. Steve let his head fall back, opening himself to the hungry mouth that slipped down his body, pulled blood to his skin and hinted of more with a grazing touch of his tongue at the head of his cock. The tease pulled his hips forward, asking; his fumbling hands buried deep into long thick hair nestled close against his thigh. The willing loll of Bucky’s head as he pulled him between his legs nearly ended Steve’s waning resolve not to let this keep going. A shred of responsibility made its last gasp plea. “Stop. We can’t do this.” Rasped words that didn’t match his body’s willingness, they fell ignored in the darkness.

“No, you’re close, please let me.” A begging response muffled by his skin and Bucky’s reach to take him in.

“Get up, come on. We’re done.” Fingers twisted a tighter grip in hair, his tugged intention to pull him to his feet. A sliver of light streamed across their bodies enough for Steve to see Bucky, lips parted, wide-eyed want, face turned up expectant; wild and innocent, tamed and world-weary, all of what Steve ever wanted kneeling in front of him, a frightening mix of paranoia and trust, waiting for his word, no matter the consequences.

The jarring echo of “Kiev” made his choice clear. “Okay, we’re done. Stop.”

“You say stop but look at you. You don’t want to stop.” Bucky’s half laughed, partly whined complaint didn’t stop Steve from dragging him to his feet.

“Nope. Up. Done. I shouldn’t have done this. What the hell am I thinking?” He tugged pants up, jacket shut, fending off continued attempts of skin-on-skin contact, he ended the struggle with Bucky’s arms pinned behind his back pressed to the wall. Full weight laid across his chest, a ploy to hold him in place, a stolen few seconds longer before putting distance between themselves.

Bucky’s muttered, “What did I do wrong?” Kept him from letting go.

“What? Nothing. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I did. You stopped. Something’s wrong.”

Steve pulled back; he studied Bucky’s face in the shadowed light, “The safe word, not-safe word, whatever it is, Kiev, you had to say it. I hurt you.”

“So, that’s what it’s for; you do what you want, I say Kiev if I feel bad. That’s what I did. Done.” Even the dim light didn’t keep Steve from seeing his confusion.

“No. That’s not how it works. I don’t get to do what I want. You, I, we need to figure this out another time.” Steve dragged his thumb along the day-old stubble on Bucky’s cheek, avoiding his chasing mouth. “God, what am I going to do with you?”

“Fuck me, Stevie. That’s what you’re gonna do.” Hips pushed forward into his own, a taunt he didn’t want to ignore but would.

“Not now. Not on a mission. Later, I promise, maybe. We need to go.” Steve stepped back, his hands slipped slowly from Bucky’s body, ”I’m letting go. We’re both going to pull ourselves together and get back with Sam and Natasha before they call Stark for back-up. We will not lay a hand on one another for the rest of this god-forsaken mission. Agreed?”

A twisting move to avoid an outstretched hand, he pointed at Bucky, “Agreed. Say it.”

Bucky’s muttered “Agreed,” accompanied the backpack dragged along the floor as he followed Steve down the stairs, past the propped up sheet metal door and out into the yellow-glow light of the evening streets of Cartagena. The three-way chatter resumed on the comms, a distracting discussion of unruly targets, lost lunches, a drunken arms dealer and the best take-out for supper if they ever got home. It all fell to the back of his awareness as the Voice came roaring up within his brain.

 

“ _You screwed up again. Loser. That stunt on the roof, changing locations. Independent thinking isn’t allowed, Soldat. You know this. Sex on a mission? You don’t get to decide when that happens. You sorely lack discipline. Mother will be extremely disappointed.”_

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

“I love your nail polish, what color is that?” Natasha held Beebee’s pinkie finger up to the row of incandescent bulbs that cast not-flattering shadows in the bikini shop’s three-by-three dressing room. “Mine always chips, guess it’s my line of work.” She shrugged.

“Black Widow by Sassy Pants.” The proudly cooed response as they stood together admiring the dark, sparkled nails.

“Oh.” Natasha offered a raised eyebrow, “Well, that’s a coincidence.”

Beebee whispered, “Not really.”

Natasha flirted with the urge to stun her and be one step closer to getting out of Cartagena, but the answer piqued her interest. “Why would you say that?”

“I know who you are. Really.” A wide smile covered her face, “You’re my hero --- heroine. I can’t believe you’re here! Right in front of me. I hoped we’d meet, hoped our work would make us cross paths but this, this is real! OMG!” The hushed confession electric with her enthusiasm, she tightened her grip between their fingers and added an anxious bounce on her toes.

“Interesting. Okay, I’ll bite, go on.”

“The Battle of New York my first time seeing you, magnificent. Capital M. A woman for the ages. Capital W.” A fanning motion underscored her excitement. “Warrior, holding your own, spy, fighter, femme fatale, you do it all.” Beebee’s voice rose with every word, a crescendo of joy and abject adoration, “I so wanted to be just like you, I even dyed my hair red.” A shake of her short cropped cut. “That didn’t work out; it turned orange." A waved gesture towards her head, “Hence the drab brown right now, but once my discretionary money is better, I’ll get it done professionally this time, never again with the color at home method.” A wag of their joined hands, she sang, “I took self-defense classes, pictured myself as you, dressed in all black, I sewed a little red spider on my shoulder, cute. Tossing the instructor around, damn what a rush. Except I wrenched my back, had to stop. Did you know that physical therapy is really much more than stretching, who knew? I’ll get back there.” Another dancing bounce, “Oh, oh, I took classes with nunchucks, so much like your batons,” A short break to full palm fondle the baton hanging at Natasha’s hip, she added a guttural growl before clarifying, “I was getting pretty good until my carpal tunnel acted up. More PT, a brace, ice, it helps. No nunchucks for me, my typing speed dropped from a hundred words a minute to forty." A leaned in secret shared, “The boss was not happy...”

The adoring rant marched on as Natasha nodded, smiled, shrugged and tucked the retrieved comm-link in her ear. “Sam, are you there? I think we’re good...” Her call for backup cut short by the disturbing retching noises coming from the over-stimulated Beebee.

“Um, is everything okay?”

“Yes, no, I am just so very squeeeee about this moment.”

Natasha’s only warning that Beebee’s lunch was heading for her chest was the faint green hew that scurried across her face; it only lasted three seconds, not long enough to avoid the regurgitated shrimp scampi.

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

“You’re a liability Barnes, a damn liability. You’re putting us all at risk.” Sam brought his toes to within an eighth of an inch of Bucky’s boots, square-shouldered full-frontal pissed. The festive nightlife swarmed around them on the cobblestone street too preoccupied or drunk to notice the escalation of their sparring. Steve and Natasha stood looming over a zip-tie restrained Beebee sitting on the curb, not necessarily the clear loser in the bikini shop encounter.

Bucky offered his standard response to Sam’s cutting assessment, “Fuck you, Wilson.”

“Nice. Same answer every time. You’re so eloquent.”

“ _Mother would treat this eloquence with her stun prod.”_

“Thanks. I try.” Bucky’s answer doubled as a retort to Wilson and the Voice. A quick tremor and side-long glance the only tell that Bucky spoke to both of them.

Sam demanded, “What the hell was that stunt on the roof about?”

“You stuck out just as much as I did, Birdman, you looked more like a vulture than a Falcon.”

“ _That was witty, once, not when repeated.”_

“Funny guy, I wasn’t waving a rifle at a bunch of tourists.” Sam didn’t back down.

“I wasn’t waving a rifle; I don’t wave my rifle. You’re crazy.”

“I’m crazy.” Sam laughed, “Actually that would be you I believe, you’re the one on meds, the one with the voices, not me.”

The shame driven anger grabbed his attention, he fought down the urge to snap an answer or Wilson’s neck.

“ _Birdman knows the truth. He sees you. He sees how fucked up you are. Loser.”_

“I’m not. No, he doesn’t. You’re wrong.”

“What? You’re not crazy? Not taking meds? Who’s he? Me? Rogers? See this is what I mean. You’re not even coherent half the time.”

Sam’s waved gesture towards him drew an uncharacteristic flinch, the rush of anxiety drove his steps back and demanded its due. He began to pace. A muttered, gritted “I hate you,” as he brushed past Wilson’s shoulder.

Steve sent a worried glance towards him as the pacing began.

“Right back at ‘cha Barnes.” Sam stood his ground, arms folded, he watched Bucky’s measured pace move down the street and back again, he pointed at Bucky’s feet as he passed, “Oops you missed a step. That was eight, not nine. Do over.”

A near stumble at the critique, Bucky pushed forward, counting nine up and nine back, the constant internal regulation of his anxiety. A muttered, “Fuck you,” tripped up his steps, “Shit,” brought him back to his starting point.

Sam kept going, “While you were blowing the lid off our covert operation and sipping Pina Coladas with Steve, Natasha had a slow dance gone wrong with Beebee; Maymay’s drunk selling alien weapons in the plaza and those annoying sirens? That would be La Policia searching for the crazed sniper spotted on the roof. You know, the one that works with us. The international and probably intergalactic fugitive.” He waved his hand towards Bucky’s back as the measured steps carried him past, “Oh, wait, that’s you. We do not even want to know what the two of you did once the comms went off.”

Natasha suggested, “Speak for yourself.”

“Okay, Sam, let’s not go there, please,” Steve called as he and Nat continued their interrogation.

“ _He’s lying. They know what you did. He heard you. They were listening to you get your rocks off. Pathetic moans of let me do this, Stevie, let me take care of you, Stevie.”_

Bucky shook his head, the hand that ran through his hair caught a fist-full and tugged, a desperate attempt to distract the Voice, he hoped Wilson didn’t notice, an absent mutter, “Who the hell are Beebee and Maymay?”

“Our targets, Barnes, the two targets we’ve followed all over Cartagena for the past who knows how long.”

“You know their names? No names, better that way. Better to not know.”

“I’ll tell you what’s better. It would be better if you followed Steve’s lead. If you participated as a team member, so our covert operation didn’t have to descend into ‘Let’s all look for Barnes’ like you’re some damn lost puppy.”

“ _You’re a fucking distraction.”_

Bucky’s pacing quickened, head down, hair in his face, thoughts racing one after another. Hearing Wilson’s words like a low rumbled murmur overpowered by the growing conviction of the Voice, agreeing with Wilson’s assessment. He thought his muttered response was internal, “You’re right, both of you are right, I’m a loser. Stupid, careless, undisciplined, loser.”

“Barnes, what the hell are you doing?” Sam stepped in his path, “Are you talking to me? That voice? Barnes!”

 

Steve jerked around at the sound of Sam’s raised voice. A split second image burned into his mind’s eye, Bucky’s metal hand fisted into Sam’s uniform, lifting him chest to chest, toes barely touching the ground. The tremor coursing through Bucky evident even in the dim light of the street. A cold hard rush of anxiety tightened his chest as he recognized the angry, disconnected stare, a nearly forgotten look since he’d stabilized on the medications, Steve crossed with caution to slide his hand over Bucky’s wrist. “Buck, it’s me, come on, let’s take a step back.” Flesh fingers entwined with metal, he dug between the digits and material, to drag away his grip. His chin brushed on Bucky’s shoulder, his tone and words a fluid balance of cajoling whispered coaxing meant to keep Sam safe, protect Bucky while safeguarding their intimacy as he talked him down inches from Sam’s face. “It’s over, let him go, you don’t want to do this. For me, let go for me.”

Bucky staggered back, his hand wrapped in Steve’s grip, he let himself be led to a darkened spot on the sidewalk, panting through the blinding flash of anger and pain, he struggled to recall the last few seconds.

“Are you with me?” Steve’s hand rested on his chest, quieting his pounding heartbeat. Bucky didn’t answer.

“That Voice is back isn’t it?”

He rolled his head against the wall, “Back? It’s never gone. It’s always there. Loud, quiet, helpful, cutting, never gone.”

Steve moved closer, “We need to get through this, all in one piece, not fighting with one another. You’ve fought the Voice before, time to do it again.”

“Not just me, not just the Voice,” He pointed at Wilson, “He’s a jerk. Worse than a jerk.”

“I heard that Barnes. Takes one to know one.” Sam called over the crowd that meandered between them.

Natasha pulled at Sam’s arm and pointed an accusatory finger at both of them, “I admit I have no knowledge of public schools but I still know a schoolyard fight when I see one and this has got to stop. We’re a long way from done. That cruise ship sets sail at dawn, and we still haven’t found the weapons. You can duke this out in the gym when we get home. I am hot, tired, sweaty, there is puke down my bra, and I am at the end of my considerable patience. Zip it and move on.”

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

“I vote no.” Sam underscored his emphatic stance with a decisive crossing of his arms.

Steve sighed, “I hate to say this but, I’m with Sam.”

Bucky waved a dismissive hand at the two of them but kept his “Fuck you,” internal.

_“Oh, something new. Self-control. Afraid of the Widow aren’t you?”_

Natasha weighed in, “I think it’s a good plan. I vote yes.” She took note of Bucky’s shocked look in her direction. She shrugged. “Split decision.”

Steve offered, “I’ll do it. I can get her to come with me.”

Nat countered, “No she knows who you are, she won’t go with you without a scene.”

Sam weighed in again, “This is crazy, Barnes had me off my feet less than fifteen minutes ago, and now you want him to rub elbows with innocent tourists, seduce an arms dealer in public and do it without any general mayhem? You do recall the fight in D.C. right?”

Steve stood face-to-face with Sam, “Enough, we are a team. Let’s act like one.”

“You and Barnes are a team; we are the sidekicks. You’re defending him.”

“I will defend every one of you. And maybe you missed it, I’m agreeing with you about the plan.”

 

Beebee’s voice cut through their argument, “Well you four may play superheroes on the news, but I am seriously underwhelmed right now. Matter of fact, my whole world is crashing down around me, not only is my early retirement sinking in Cartagena, my heroine belongs to a team of wonky crybabies. Personally, I got out of a bad marriage because of bickering like this.” Her acerbic curbside comments brought them to a halt. “Look, what do I know, I’m just a secretary, well not just, I’m a damn good secretary, but Maymay’s got a thing for the Winter Soldier, trust me, she’ll follow him anywhere. If she sees any of you, she’ll make a scene like you’ve never experienced, if she sees me with you she’ll make a scene; if she sees me by myself she’ll wonder why I’m not working the hotel buyers and she’ll make a scene. Your only hope of corralling her is that gorgeous hunk of man-flesh looking all kinds of together over there holding up that wall.”

Beebee’s nod directed all of them to follow her gaze towards Bucky who indeed leaned against the wall, one knee bent, his foot propped behind him, arms crossed, head tilted in one of his best “I’m not too sure what’s going on right now, why is everyone staring at me” poses.

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

“Kneel down, Barnes.” Romanova pointed in front of her. “We need to neaten you up a bit. Kneel down. I can’t reach your hair.”

Bucky stared down at her, a mix of concern, paranoia, intrigue, and exhaustion; he relented when Steve slipped his hand across the back of his neck and whispered, “A man-bun, never heard of it, but can’t wait to see this.”

Tenuous shuffled feet led to a drop to his knees; he eyed her move behind him with a good deal of suspicion only quieted by the tight grip he had on Steve’s hand.

“No garrote. You haven’t pissed me off to that level in a long time. I’ve downgraded my revenge to gaslighting you at home.”

Bucky’s suspicious glare over his shoulder matched by the subdued look of horror that crossed Steve’s face.

“Sorry, sorry, just a joke, a stupid, stupid, unfeeling joke. No offense. Now get your head over here and stop being so sensitive. You should trust me by now. I live with you.”

Natasha furrowed her brow as she pulled and tugged at his hair, deftly shaping it into a not-too-neat ball at the back of his head, she pulled a few wisps of hair out in the front, spit on a finger and patted down a wayward strand and smiled, “Maymay’s gonna love you.”

Bucky wrinkled his nose at the spit hair gel and frowned about the Maymay comment.

Steve pulled him to his feet, spun him a half turn and nodded his approval. “I like it.”

Bucky muttered, “Liar,” as he stripped off the leather jacket, dropped his guns in the backpack and took a long deep breath before stepping out into the ebb and flow of the laughing, talking, dancing sea of humanity.

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

Steve asked, “What are we doing?” A metaphorical question more than a practical one.

Sam jumped in, “We’re watching Barnes apply his true calling as a psychopathic stalker.”

“I am keeping score.” Natasha reminded.

Steve pulled his uniform jacket down and tied it around his waist. A concession to the close quarters and need to blend in for the sake of tailing Bucky. His slow meandering steps shadowed Bucky’s wandering through the crowded square as his deceptive saunter brought him closer to the twirling, singing, spectacle that was target number two. His mirrored movements far enough away to not raise Maymay’s concern should she see him but still within his reach if Bucky fell apart.

Steve’s worried eye followed his every casual graze of material on the vendor carts, each curious glance towards the shoppers milling within inches of his reach. An ache crept up into his chest watching Bucky’s not-hidden look of wonder as he took in the bright colored items, his hand lingering a few seconds longer on rough-hewn cottons, running soft silks through his fingers time and again only to drop the item when the vendor spoke to him. Steve’s chest hurt with Bucky’s curious gaze lingered long on the couples, bodies pressed tight, swaying in time to the music, arms entangled, heads close. A near uncontrolled urge to pull him into an engulfing embrace, burying his face in his neck to let the music move them together right out there on the plaza, in public, mission or no mission, dancing skills or none. His heart ached for Bucky.

“Everything okay?” Steve had to ask.

A thumbs up raked across Bucky’s cheek. A clear signaled answer. An unspoken relief with the blue leather jacket shed, and his hair pulled off his neck in the lingering evening heat. A discreet hand slid along the small of his back, a ritualistic check for the two knives hidden beneath his T-shirt. One quick glance down to his boot, an accounting of the third knife barely peaking above his ankle. The metal arm uncovered, as natural to him as anyone else’s flesh arm; no one seemed to take notice.

 

“I hurt you.” Steve’s quiet observation crept into Bucky’s hearing.

The tilted head response signaled the words found their target; he didn’t answer.

“You had to say it. Kiev. I made you say it.”

A quick side-long glance towards Steve’s position, his gaze flickered from Maymay’s unique approach to weapons sales, then skittered back again.

“That’s not the first time, is it? You’ve thought it before, haven’t you? Makes sense, you just don’t say it.”

A stranger would see the head shake as an annoyed encounter with an insect; Steve read it as a denial.

“Why wouldn’t you say something?”

The metal shoulder rose and fell, a shrug that didn’t answer one way or the other. Bucky moved along the line of bright colored carts, a self-imposed barrier between himself and the human sea of party-goers swirling in the middle of the plaza.

Bucky’s quiet whisper, “Shut up. I told you. I’m fine.”

“Hardly. You had to use the safe word.”

“So. That’s why we have the words. Right? You do your thing If I can’t handle it. I say the word.”

“That is not the plan. This is a two-way street here.”

“Look, I like what we do; I want you to...”

“Stop!” Sam cut his sentence short, “Those of us with a remaining work ethic do not want to hear this conversation. Please have mercy.”

“Cranky aren’t we?” Bucky muttered and continued his voluntary mission to be the bait in their attempt to bring in the wayward administrative assistant, part-time arms dealer, Maymay.

 

Criss-crossed strings of lights danced in the night breeze, their bouncing glow a counterpoint to the festive music wafting across the tables and open center of the plaza. Laughter, chatter, the clinking of plates and glasses punctuated the strumming sounds of guitars and quick joyful cadence of singers. Bucky circled like the predator he was taught to be, a benign shadow figure creeping closer and closer to his unsuspecting prey.

The robust woman in the long flowing tangerine and white skirt, and off-the-shoulder tank top spun a dizzying circle, staggering ever wider as she let the booze, the night and the negotiations take her. Her contagious enthusiastic laugh spread across the clandestine arms dealers and tourists alike. Maymay was on a roll.

Bucky studied her technique. A quick mental note, each whirling spin brought her to four distinct tables. His mind stumbled over the fourth one. A quick head shake, his eyes darted left then right, he paused.

“You okay?” Steve’s worried question filled his hearing.

“Four.”

“Four? Right, four. Not three. Got it. Plus one, like we talked about.”

Natasha chimed in, “One is good, three is divisible by one. Plus one is acceptable.”

“What the hell are you all talking about?” Sam had yet to accept the three fetish workarounds.

Bucky clenched his jaw, “I’m good.” He made his way to his chosen interception point.

 

“I love Cartagena! No really, I do. I love, love, love this place!” Maymay’s enthusiastic endorsement of her current location rang across the plaza to the amusement of tourist, locals and most of the arms dealers. She spun, swirled and danced from table number two to number three. “Hello, my dears. How are you? I have forty-seven thousand reasons to be here. Will you make it forty-eight?”

A slight head nod from a man in a pressed white linen suit sent her cackling, spinning self on towards table number four. She grabbed a drink from a passing waiter, spun another full turn while sucking on a straw and headed for her next bidder.

Bucky’s step hesitated. Table number four, caught in his mind. A cold sweat dripped down his back; a numbness clouded his thoughts. He pushed his foot forward, struggling to keep moving. The internal fight to overcome the anxiety-driven number obsession fell by the wayside when he heard a gasp. Maymay’s alcohol-fueled spinning tripped over a stone and sent her hurtling towards a small child in a stroller. She screamed at the inevitable collision, her dangling, wrenching moves to avoid it only made it worse. The whole event slowed down, parents yelling, Maymay’s scream, the cries of a terrified child all playing out like a stop-motion macabre train wreck until Bucky’s metal hand connected with her arm.

The force of her fall dragged him forward to follow her trajectory; he dug his foot into the pavement, the resistance swung her in a wide-arching circle around him. Finally landing face-first into his chest, driving the air from his lungs, her arms wrapped tightly around his body, her sobbing wetness spread across his T-shirt.

Bucky stood frozen in place wearing the large weeping woman.

“Oh my god, you saved me. You saved that child. Thank you. Thank you.” Maymay’s hands wandered across his back, took in his hips, “Oh my, you’re strong, look at you, feel you. Wow, tight. you’re very tight.” A caress of his thighs, a quick pinching exam of firm abs, hands settling on his ass, she gripped both butt cheeks with the certainty and enthusiasm only outdone by Steve.

“Remember to breathe, Barnes.” The laughter in Natasha’s voice clear, “Talk to her. Ask to walk her home.”

Sam chimed in, “Someone, get their phone out. Mine’s dead. We need a picture of this, come on Nat. The look on his face is too much. He looks terrified.”

Bucky searched the crowd for Steve. Eyes darting left and right, his hands at his sides, fear crawling up his body, unable to talk or move or think with this full body mauling grip, hands tightly wrapped in his flesh, a body not Steve’s pressed to his chest; the panic sent fire across his brain. The urge to shove her off, throw her to the ground pushed his hands to grab her arms.

Steve’s grounding voice came from somewhere,"You're fine," it rang in his ear, his brain, the Voice mocking him, he wasn't sure, he heard it again, “I’m right here. Look at me. On your left. Just look up.”

Bucky raised his eyes; a shiver ran through him until Steve stepped out from the gathering crowd. Near enough to see the blue of his eyes. “I’ve got you. It's okay."

 

Maymay looked up at Bucky. “I know you?” She ran her fingers along his metal arm, awe in her eyes, her hand slipped around his bicep. “I know you. You're him.”

He stared down at her, watching her fingers trace the grooves on his arm, the sensation of her skin, sliding along the metal. Not Steve’s skin. But not threatening either. Her touch gentle, a caress, careful exploration, not painful, harmless enough to allow a breath, to stop his tremor. His flesh hand hinted contact with the small of her back. A stuttered hesitant, “I’m walking you home. Game's over. Okay?”

Maymay nodded, dragging her wet face and running nose across his chest. "Okay, okay whatever you say."

One flesh fingertip connected with her back, Bucky allowed a long slow breath out, the slight taste of blood from chewing his cheek. His whispered, "Don't let go," directed towards Steve, his wide-eyed intense plea to not lose Steve in the confusion.

"I won't." Maymay's wet response spoken into his chest. 

Steve's smile clear in his eyes, his relief evident in the words that came across the comm, nesting in his ear, calming his thoughts, "Never. Not ever, Never letting go."

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

Natasha held up a skimpy multicolored bikini with several shiny objects dangling from various strings. “Nice choice Barnes.” The mixture of surprise and admiration in Natasha’s tone evoked a feeling that resembled how he felt when Steve offered a word or look of praise. He didn't let the moment last. 

_"Mother's so proud of you, Soldat."_

A half-emptied backpack laid in the middle of the passenger bay of the quinjet, clothing, guns and a few bright colored trinkets spilled out next to a ratty suitcase, two semi-functional Chitauri replica weapons, a bag of trail mix and six wet C4 detonator caps. 

“I thought you didn’t have any money?” Sam wondered as he toed through the items, “You never pay for anything, ever.”

Bucky let the question go unanswered and settled into a jumpseat across from Maymay. He employed the diversionary tactic of not making eye contact with the intense gaze, he struggled to determine if she wanted to kill him or make him supper. He never considered any other options.  

“Steve, an allowance? He does no chores whatsoever, and he gets an allowance?”

“No allowance,” Steve called back from the controls.

“A credit card? Seriously, you gave him a credit card?”

“No credit card. Why?”

“There’s a pile of stuff back here. Barnes went shopping. When the hell did he have time to shop? No, wait, how did he shop without money?”

“I have no idea, ask him. He’s sitting right in front of you.”

Natasha came to his defense, “Hey, at least he thought to get me a clean shirt, Wilson.” She pointed at the 'I Heart Cartagena' T-shirt that took the place of her vomit-covered uniform top. “That’s a lot more than you thought to do.” 

Sam shook his head as he took the farthest seat from Bucky, "You stole all that stuff. I know it. I'm telling Steve as soon as we get back. Suck up." 

Socked feet propped onto the jumpseat, Bucky stretched his long, lean and exhausted body along the entire bench excluding where Sam had planted himself, an arm draped across his face, toes connecting with Sam's thigh, a not accidental poke.

"Gross. Get your feet off me." 

Bucky let a faint smirk crawl across his face as the consoling hum of the quinjet brought him to the edge of a fitful sleep.


	5. Maymay, Emotions and Other Scary Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6-1 = 5 in Bucky's world. Much appreciation to the kind souls who come to visit. Thank you! 
> 
> Thanks always to Pambot3000!

“My leg’s asleep.” Steve pried at metal fingers wrapped tight around his right thigh, the aftermath of Maymay’s intense adoring stare for the entire trip home. Bucky’s attempts to ignore her had fallen into a staring contest, evolved into pacing, followed by a string of expletives, the dent in the overhead storage brought Steve from the pilot’s seat. Bucky’s forced retreat ended with him on the cockpit floor, tucked beneath Steve’s leg, wedged into a tight ball of paranoia entertaining the Voice.  
  
_“She wants to kill you, Soldier. Sizing you up, waiting for the right moment. We know about these things, don't we Soldat? Do it. Kill her. Or has fucking the Captain made you soft?"_  
  
“Hey, we’re home. Let’s get out of here.” Steve raised Bucky’s head, vying for his attention and pulling him from his pointed study of Maymay’s feet, the only part of her visible from his vantage point.  
  
“She’s still staring at me. Why?” Bucky’s gaze strained to stay on his perceived target.

“She likes you.” Steve pried at Bucky’s fingers.

“Why?”

“Same reason I like you.” He slid his hand under Bucky’s, stretched his leg and wiggled his toes.

“She wants to fuck me?”

“What? No. Hey, look at me.”

Bucky let Steve drag his gaze around to him.

“That’s not why I like you. I mean, I like that but you’re more than that.” Steve studied his upturned face; the disconnection as the Voice won out, an anxious twitch of his eye, the pain buried deep into his features, a tilt of his head at the internal debates that he refused to share. “That Voice is talking. Tell me what it’s saying. I want to know.” 

Steve watched the uncertainty cross Bucky’s face and shake through his body. Words near to spilling out, a spark of hope, the lightness of deciding to share a secret, the veil lifted for a heartbeat. It fell within seconds, his willingness beatdown, giving in to confusion, a victim of the close-guarded Voice. He fought down the envy that gripped his chest as he watched Bucky come near to trusting him with his darkest places only to choose the Voice again.

  
“Nothing. Not talking. Not now.” Mumbled words as he laid his head on Steve’s leg.

  
“When you’re ready,” Steve gripped his shoulder, reluctant to let the matter go, the tightened grip on his thigh told him otherwise, “I’ll be ready.”

  
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

“Listen Stark, with all due respect; it’s my operation, my equipment, I have the working relationship with Rogers and his crew. I run the debrief.” Fury stood square-shouldered and resolute in the double-wide trailer that served as their debriefing room, a larger-than-life projected image of Tony Stark shimmered across a faded gray wall. “You’re welcome to listen in and get a full report, but I take the lead.”  
  
“Well, technically it’s my intel now. They sent it to me; I did the research, I sent it to you. Oh, right, one small detail. It’s my money. That should count for everything.” The virtual Stark, seated in a swivel chair, worked an antsy half-arc with hands folded, head cocked, the picture of I-dare-you. “They knew what they were getting into when they sent me that data.”  
  
Fury pushed back, “That team and I have a good working relationship. Rogers is on board with my methods, his team trusts me. If we’re going to work together, you need to let us work.”

“Wake up, Fury. Rogers trusts no one except himself.”

“And he chooses to work with my operation. Look, let’s get this out on the table. I know what the issues are here.”

“Do tell? Can’t wait to hear your theories.”

“You’ve got a bone to pick with Barnes, no one’s gonna deny that. He’s trying to make things right. I’m willing to help him. I’d like to think we’ve built some trust. I want to keep it that way.”

“Make things right? Wow. Okay. Can’t wait to see how that goes.” Stark stopped his swiveling motion and gripped the arms of his chair. “On the table it is; he’s an insane walking time bomb that you’re using to meet your agenda. Rogers good with that? He’s protective you know. No worries. I’ll keep quiet, let you do all the talking.” A quick zip motion across his lips.

“My agenda is out in the open, Stark, not sure you can say the same thing.”

The zip motion reversed, “Rogers is well aware of my agenda. We’ve had our late-night chats.” He zipped his lips shut then open again, “Oh, Fury, bone to pick? Interesting choice of words.”

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

“Sam will bring the ladies. Nat and I will deal with Fury. I’ll talk to Tony. You, stay here. I’ll come back. Then we go home.” Steve’s instructions spoken close, his breath warm on Bucky’s cheek, it drew an eyes closed, head tilted effort to brush against his lips. Steve’s open hand pressed over Bucky’s heart sent a flood of warmth to spread across his chest, he leaned his weight into the touch.

“Why? I can take care of myself; I want to be with you.” Bucky’s reach to loop a finger into Steve’s belt hesitated with the sound of Maymay’s sucked in breath and the wag of Beebee’s head in his peripheral vision.

“I don’t doubt that. Fury and his people aren’t a problem but Tony’s involved now. It’s not safe.”

“Stark.” He tucked his hands in his armpits, “You don’t want me to embarrass you again?”

“I don’t want you getting caught.” Steve patted his cheek and headed for the ramp.

“I’m not afraid of him,” Bucky called.

“You should be afraid of Tony. One text and it’s over. Just listen to me, do this. Stay here.”

“Stark.” His anxiety moved him to follow, “Is this detention? Should I stand in the corner?”

“Stop it, just stop.” The quick turn to re-engage caused Bucky to stumble back.

Steve’s reach to catch his fall startled him; eyes darted towards the outreached hand, he jerked his head away, triggered responses buried deep, pulled from his body without thinking. Steve caught his arm, “I was trying to catch you,” pulling him in, a thumb raked through stubble, fingers tangled in the sagging mess of hair he dragged Bucky forward, wrapped him in his arms, forehead resting on forehead.

“I want you safe. Tony’s still angry. I want you to trust me. Please try.”

“Stark.”

“What?”

“You keep calling him by his first name,” Bucky muttered, eyes looking away, he rolled his cheek to rake his skin across Steve’s beard.

“I, it’s not anything. I’m sorry.” He dragged a thumb along the drawn lines of fatigue, the dark circles, trying to wipe or wish away the uncertainty that filled Bucky’s mind and showed itself in every feature of his face. “Trust me, please. I’ll get you. If anything goes wrong, take the jet and leave.”

“Are you telling me to steal the jet?” The hint of a smirk.

Steve drove his fingers under the knot of hair, held close, he shook him, “You do whatever needs to be done. You understand me? I don’t care what it takes.”

Bucky nodded, eyes closed, he leaned forward, asking for the kiss that Steve seemed reluctant to give, but did in the end. A quick brush of lips, dry and rough and gone before he could open his eyes again. “Fine, I’ll wait.” His muttered response too late for Steve, but heard by his audience of two.

Maymay’s heartfelt sentiment, “How romantic. I think I’m gonna cry,” quivered through the bay.

  
  
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

“You haven’t told him, have you?” Natasha glanced at the jet then turned to Steve as they headed towards the mission debrief office. A long low building a few yards across the snow-covered tarmac. Both scanned the presumed abandoned airport; their vehicles tucked with discretion beneath a canopy, Fury’s SUV under a sagging carport, the setting sun peeking through the clouds to add a reddish glow to dirt-scarred snow.

“Tell him what?” Steve pulled at his jacket collar.

“No games, Rogers. The in-flight scolding by Fury for the past four hours pretty much all about Barnes.”

Steve stopped short, “Picture this I’m going to tell Buck that his few minutes of indiscretion hanging over the edge of that roof made it to the Instagram pages of a dozen tourists and of course grew exponentially.” Steve’s demonstrated headline, “Winter Soldier spotted in Cartagena, news at 11,” gave way to a mocked tone, “Uncle Clem, look at this, we saw the Winter Soldier! Tried to get his autograph, no luck.” A return to his dour post-mission persona, “This is why we flew under the radar for a thousand miles, avoiding Interpol.”  
  
Natasha countered, “My point exactly, you need to tell him about the consequences of his actions and the risk he’s facing. The risk all of us face.”  
  
A frigid gust of wind pushed his steps forward, “Trust me, he understands the consequences of his actions. That reality visits him every night, takes up space in our bed, steals his dreams, fills his every waking minute with regret for the shit they made him do, forced him to do, he owns every disgusting second of it when it wasn’t his fault. I hear the hybrid conversations, English and Russian, gibberish that isn’t gibberish, it’s pretty damn clear what he’s feeling. I’m the one wrapped around him in the dark, night after night, telling him it’s over, all in the past. But it isn’t, is it?”  
  
“No, it’s not over, not his past and not now.” Natasha’s hand wrapped around his forearm, “Stark is a loose cannon; we’re back on the radar. Barnes deserves to know.”  
  
Steve came back at her, “You were on the jet, right? Remember the way the sweat broke in your armpits at 300 miles an hour when his fist dented the cargo bay; you never did provide the translation to the rant he launched? If Maymay’s school-girl crush fueled his paranoia, imagine what Stark’s eavesdropping is going to do to him. He heard every word and what did Sam call it? Moist sound? Yup this is my fault, who am I kidding.”  
  
She stepped ahead of him an attempt to get his full attention, “Doesn’t matter who’s fault, no one’s fault, you need to prepare him and tell him what’s coming.”

“No. I need to protect him.”

“You want to protect him, but what if you can’t. Isn’t it better to prepare him? He’s not a child.”  
  
Steve dragged to a halt; he studied the cracked cement under his feet, “No, I get it, he’s not a child. Do you get it, he struggles, he’s not --- stable. One minute we’re good, next it’s the deep end, and no one remembers how to swim.” He tapped his heel on a patch of ice, working the frozen water until it cracked, buying time, he continued, “They doubled the dose of antipsychotics after the whole Shostokov mess. When I got out of the hospital, he was good, then not so good. The limp set him off, even after I was good to go, he kept asking how could I limp if I had the serum. Kept saying how that had to be ‘the worst break ever,’ how it was all his fault; then he moved to ‘if only he’d gone back to Hydra if only he’d stayed with Mother if only’...”

He let a heartbeat pass, words spoken more for himself than her, “Now his hand is always on my thigh, right where it broke, at first I thought it was a habit, affection, but lately it seems like he’s trying to change it, make it not real. Doesn’t matter that I’m fine now.”  
  
Steve closed his eyes and let the wind cut across his face, grateful for the bite of a simpler kind of pain, he looked at Nat again, “He stares at me at night, I can feel his eyes on me, jolts me wide awake. Kneeling on the floor, inches from my face, staring in the dark. He’ll pat my head and whisper, ‘Watching you breathe. It’s okay, go back to sleep.’” He glanced towards the jet and let a few seconds pass, “He touches me, a finger on my cheek or my pulse, scared me so bad, the first time I fell out of bed. His reason? ‘You’re real, right? Just checking, I thought you were dead.’” Steve shook his head; the hard tight blink fought back what he told himself were the cold-driven tears, “Funny thing, I do the same thing to him. I catch myself staring at him in the middle of a mission, in the kitchen, shoveling snow. I watch him sleep, when he does sleep, I wonder the same things, am I dreaming, hallucinating or is he here?”  
  
Natasha let his words settle, “You two have a history of losing one another. Seems natural to wonder if any of this is real.”  
  
Steve allowed an uncharacteristic shudder roll across his shoulders, “Anyway, the medication increase helped some, now he sleeps three hours instead of two, except the side effects, are worse. Dry mouth, tired, other stuff,” his voice trailed off. His eyes darted towards Natasha. “Sorry. Don’t repeat that, talk about not helping his paranoia. Probably need to call my therapist or his or both.”  
  
Natasha shrugged, “Wouldn’t hurt any of us to process a few things.”  
  
Steve headed towards the double-wide, “Let’s not forget that Fury’s still pissed about him kidnapping his torturer and squirreling her away in a private prison instead of The Raft. He had an accomplice. Oh, wait. That was you.” He pointed at her.

She smiled, “He asked nicely. I’m a sucker for nice. On the upside, he worked past his three fetish.”

Steve answered, “Yup. There’s the man-bun. Kinda liked that.”

Natasha matched him, “He saved a baby, corralled a part-time arms dealer and didn’t melt down when she put him in a bear hug and left her snot on his T-shirt.”

Steve laughed, “Good one.”

She tucked her hands in her pockets, “He bought us all souvenirs.”

“Bought? Yet to be determined.”

“I’ve got a sweet bikini and a thoughtful T-shirt. What did he get you?”

A faint blush of pink chased across his cheek, “Not telling.”

“A dildo?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Ah, no.”

She asked, “What did Sam get?”

He raised an eyebrow, “A dildo.”

“They sell those on vendor carts in the plaza? Wait,” She grabbed his arm, “Does Sam know this? I haven’t heard him take his name in vain yet.”  
  
Steve’s walk towards the building stuttered to a halt; he scanned the surrounding hills in the fading light. Natasha followed his gaze.

His half wonder, half actual question, “What about the trinkets he stole, bought, borrowed, the ones that were meant for the drug mules on the cruise ship?” A long deep sigh, “Do you think the cartel will come after us in Upstate New York for a cocaine-filled plaster statue of Gertrude? I hope not. Can we return it?” He shook his head, “No wait. We can’t mail cocaine can we?” He turned towards Natasha, but his words were all for himself, “If Beebee hadn’t clued us in the damn thing would be sitting on his bureau. Every night he’d pull me in there, expectant, a spark of hope in his eyes.” Steve’s gaze drifted back towards the jet, his voice barely a whisper, “He’d hold my finger on her breast, wrap around me from behind, laughing in my ear and beg, ‘Stevie, we’ll rub it for luck, like in Cartagena.’ And I’d do it, no matter what I believe, or how fruitless or hopeful, I’ll do it. Anything to get a semblance of a smile, to feel the tremors go quiet, I’ll give him everything I have, my life and more just to take away that fucking haunted look. His pain looks me in the eye every day, defiant, wrapped around his soul, dug into his heart, holding him prisoner. It sits behind his eyes, daring me to try and free him, mocking me. He’s in there, Bucky is, I see him, feel him, every day another glimmer, a smirk, his sarcasm, his wonder. But that damn Voice, that hurt, and history, it’s a sick joke, how it lets him come to the surface for a quick gulp of air then drags him under again. Laughing at us, taunting us.”  
  
Natasha’s hand brushed against his cheek, “It’s alright.”  
  
“What? What’s alright? That he’s tormented? Lost? That I failed him? What?”  
  
“To love him.”  
  
Steve’s steel-willed stubbornness pushed forward a frozen, wordless stare. It served as a last line of defense against spilling the roiling emotions that drove his words, especially to Romanova on the tarmac before facing Fury. His opened mouth attempt at a rebuttal, stumbled in his brain towards a lame quip then a swear only to land square at a near-confession, saved by Fury’s bellowing voice.  
  
“Rogers. What the hell is going on? I haven’t got all night. Let’s get this done.”  
  
Natasha squeezed his arm before he could escape, “He deserves the truth, Steve, whatever that is, you need to trust him.”  
  
Steve glanced back at the jet; a hard-fought stifled urge to abandon the debrief and head back to Bucky lost to his sensibilities. A fleeting wish that he’d left the comm in his ear, to hear his voice, gave way to being glad his words were only for Natasha’s ears at least for now. He turned towards the building’s door, yanked it open as they both scrambled inside, “Good to see you too, Fury.”

  
  
  
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

“So you’re gay?” Maymay’s bare foot danced across the top of Bucky’s unlaced boot.

“What? No. Yes? Maybe? I don’t answer to you.” His stuttered response pulled a faint blush across his cheeks. He yanked his foot away from her and reached to tug his jacket from the storage bin over her shoulder. His cautious long stretch, toes kept far away struggle to untangle the balled-up jacket and drag it free without landing in her lap or inviting her unwanted touch drew a cold sweat, and a murmured Cyrillic swear word or two.  
  
“Could you spare that lovely blue leather jacket, I’m not quite dressed for the North Pole,” Maymay’s full-body shiver escalated when Bucky allowed an apprehensive glance down in her direction. She caught the sleeve as it dangled between the bin and his hand. “There’s a reason we live in Arizona, you know, this weather sucks. I promise I’ll mail it to you when we get home.”  
  
_“You made eye contact, Soldat. What the hell are you thinking?”_  
  
Bucky’s chosen path of clinging to Steve as a means of dealing with her adoration came under immediate reassessment with Steve gone and her hand entangled in one of his few possessions. A gentle moderated tug to free his jacket met with increased resistance.  
  
_“Kill her. Just kill her and take your stuff back.”_  
  
The internalized argument with the Voice debated the value of the old ways of doing things and referenced ‘Steve’s way’ which at the moment did not involve killing anyone. He held to his casual-stance, firm grip on the collar of his coat.

Maymay countered, “Fine, just let me wear it until you’re done interrogating us,” she matched his hold with full body weight, leaned back, feet braced attempt to wrestle it from his hand.  
  
_“She’s not even a Widow, and you’re letting her get the best of you. Kill her. Now. End this.”_  
  
A more than fleeting thought about ‘What Would Steve Do’ landed him on the tenuous plan of no-negotiation, less than brute force approach of pulling it from her considerable grip. The faint groan of stitches giving way told him time was of the essence; he drove a foot to the wall, let a curled lip snarl creep across his face and leveled his best ‘this is over’ stare directly in her hazel-colored eyes. An unconscious move to finesse loose the knife tucked at the small of his back; the blade cleared the sheath in a quick and silent glide.  
  
_“Now we’re talking. Do it. Soldat.”_  
  
“Alright, kids, let’s stop fighting.” Sam’s sudden words shook Bucky’s concentration, his not-so-gentle slap at Maymay’s hand loosened her grip, “You don’t want that, it’s only got one sleeve.” He finished it off by prying her fingers from the blue leather. “You can’t win. He grew up during the depression, very little stuff, now he loves his stuff. Don’t piss him off, you’ll snuggle in your prison bed, and we’ll be listening to him counting steps, Natasha will be translating Russian epithets, and the well will run dry from the shower running all night. I need my sleep.” He shoved the newly freed jacket into Bucky’s chest and muttered, “Grade A restraint shown, not cutting her throat, now put your things away.” Sam’s pointed glance towards the blade in his hand, Bucky shook his head and returned a confused gaze. “We got this all under control here, right Barnes?” He watched for the slow nod; knife returned to its sheath agreement.

Bucky bit his lip and turned away from Sam’s “I knew you did, man.”  
  
_“Damn Birdman, always ruining everything.”_  
  
Undeterred, Maymay remained focused, “Bisexual then, if you’re not sure. Oh, Beebee there’s hope for us yet.” She squirmed and ran a hand through her hair, boosted her breasts, the zip-tie handcuffs didn’t hold her back.

“Hope for what?” Bucky pulled the jacket tight around him, hand still flirting with the knife, he lobbed his question from the far corner of the bay.

“There’s no hope for you,” Sam interjected.

“Fuck you.” The required response.

“Not you. Them. Then again there’s no hope for any of you. Ladies, like it or not he’s taken. Now if you don’t mind saying your goodbyes to the benevolent, patient and remarkably restrained Barnes we are heading to prison. Well, you are heading to prison; hopefully, we are not.”

Beebee groaned her disapproval as well as a few choice expletives as Fury’s men ushered her down the ramp. Maymay demonstrated other plans, her beeline drive for Bucky did not push him to step back, but drew him forward, his move for the knife conscious this time, he headed straight for her.  
  
_“End this now Soldat. She’s a threat. She’s going to put her hands all over you. Violate you, do something.”_  
  
A flash of movement from his left caused him to hold his charge. A muttered cry echoed through the passenger bay, “Damn woman you do not know how to read body language, do you?” Sam dove past him to drive his shoulder into Maymay’s center of gravity, the move pushed the air from her lungs and dragged a groan from Sam. His calculations regarding her center were off by a hair; she didn’t go down. A knee slammed into his groin, elbows pounded his back, hot pink nails raked deep bloody lines across his cheek, they fell to the deck in a hideous undulating heap of man and scantily clad woman.

Bucky judiciously climbed onto a jumpseat, his squatted observation from a distance included keeping his knife unsheathed, just in case Sam lost.  
  
“Jesus, she’s strong. Help me, Barnes," Sam’s plea muffled by the press of Maymay’s breasts to his face. Her arms wrapped around his head, a grasp of her wrist to lock her hold in place, she threw herself into a head-back, full-throated growl as Sam waved his hands in a frantic attempt to tear her arms away or at least get Bucky’s attention.

The no-holds-barred struggle rolled side-to-side, a grunting, groaning, kicking mess that rolled under Bucky’s feet, he dropped the toe of his boot to rock Sam’s hip hard enough to push them both over and out from under his perch. A move that freed Sam’s swing but did nothing for his breathing as Maymay’s body slammed the air from his lungs.  
  
Sam took advantage of the freer elbow room, his fist connected with her head, a weak shot given the lack of oxygen, he swung again but missed, his third one landed nicely to her jaw. Her angry wail next to his ear tore through his hearing; her teeth grazed his skin, he squirmed and drove his fingers into her armpit, swung a hand towards her face and snagged a fistful of hair. A balancing act of pulling to keep her teeth from clamping down on his delicate earlobe, the brawl fell into a lulled impasse of panting moaning flesh.  
  
“Hey, you guys. He could use some help.” Bucky’s call to Fury’s men standing by the SUV underscored by a come-this-way wave of his knife. “There, right there.” He pointed it at the two exhausted bodies entangled on the floor in the center of the jet.

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

  
  
Bucky stood in the bay; weight swung to his right hip, a nonchalant juggle of the knife hand to hand, he watched in silence as Fury’s men wrestled the screaming, crying administrative assistant turned arms dealer, Maymay down the ramp to the waiting SUV. Her final move of bracing both feet on the door frame to prevent being shoved inside was more than he wanted to see. He grimaced and looked down.  
  
Sam lay splayed on the floor close enough to drag himself upright by climbing up Bucky’s leg; he opted for extending his arm in the air. “Help me up.”

Bucky stared at him with the silent flat affect that reminded Sam of why he thought of him as an asshole.

“It’s the least you could do considering I just got my ass kicked for you. Come on, man.”

The slow reach of a metal hand connected with his and dragged him upright with dizzying speed.

Sam poked at the scratches on his face, examining the blood on his fingers. “Well, that was invigorating. Right? You okay? Hate to return you to Steve damaged. Hell, you didn’t even break a sweat. You’re amazing.”

He called to Fury’s men, “You guys have her settled in there, cuz I’ve done my time with her. All set? Yes? Good.” Sam grabbed his jacket and limped down the ramp. He called back over his shoulder, “Later Barnes. You owe me.”

  
  
  
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

“Six long strides down, three short across, six back up, three regular, and again.” Bucky’s out-loud description of his counting muttered through the passenger bay and kept him company as he waited on the jet for Steve. Fingers dragged through the half-falling bun; he shook his hair loose, the borrowed Natasha scrunchie tucked in his pocket with care.

_“Throw that out, Soldat. It’ll piss her off.”_

A quick thought about the comms, an escape from the Voice, a wish to hear Steve’s voice, to listen to his breath, maybe weigh in on how useless debriefings were, or whisper his name knowing full well how it would rattle his composure. He ducked to peek out each window facing the double-wide, two strides between each one, muttered Russian mixed with English epithets, a fatigue driven habit he worked to keep discreet most of the time.

_“Liar. You told Mother you forgot your Russian.”_

A sly smile as he made the turn up the far side of the jet, his toe connected with a discarded water bottle that skittered across the floor to lodge beneath the pilot’s seat. A second bottle caught his eye; he kicked it with purpose, a floating projectile lobbed over the open ramp and out onto the tarmac. A break from the rote pacing, a step to retrieve it, held up by his promise to Steve.

“No leaving the jet.” A muttered out-loud reminder.

A quick search of the storage bins uncovered a variety of empty bottles; they landed in a crunching clatter when he dumped them on the floor. The simple, methodical game pulled his focus down, kick and bounce, kick and retrieve, a point for landing on the concrete, over and over, letting in the shadows of dark-clad men kicking a ball, laughing and running. Games played far in the past, another place, sounds of camaraderie, the tease of fake arguments, goals scored and lines debated. Dirt-scratched hatch marks, dust churned up by running feet, bodies crashing, kicking at a half-inflated ball. A passing question if he played the game or watched, his body memory told of muscles straining, a voice raw from screams or shouts, or never being used except to utter a few words. Flashes of faces, angry words, a shove that pushed him back, the surge of shame telling him, not so fast, not you Soldier.

“ _You would have humiliated all of them Soldat. Not allowed. You are their weapon.”_  
  
Bucky eyed the last water-filled bottle, a full-throttle kick, it sailed well over the ramp, on a clear trajectory to victory, he allowed a one-time indulgent, hands in the air spin of celebration cut short by the thwacked landing sound unlike any of the other bottles. His dared half smile faded. The cold weather didn’t stop the sweat from breaking hard across his chest. Heart pounding into his temple, his stance frozen except for the dart of his eyes towards the ill-placed backpack of guns.  
  
“You know littering in the State of New York is punishable by a fine of up to one thousand dollars or six months in jail. Per bottle. Let’s see how many bottles are out here? Too many. Let’s lock you up and throw away the key. Nice rap sheet. Assassin, asset, litterer, murderer. Impressive.”

Bucky braced for the searing heat, and quick death doled out by the repulsors embedded in the palms of Tony Stark's gauntlets, he stayed eyes-wide-open and listed only one regret. What he got was the humiliating splatting wetness of a hard thrown plastic water bottle that burst against his chest.

  
_“Shit Soldat. He’s gonna torture us.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fernando Botero’s famous statue of a reclining nude woman, named La Gorda Gertrudis – or ‘Fat Gertrude’ – sits in the middle of the lovely Plaza Santo Domingo in the heart of the Old City of Cartagena. Posing with Gertrude has become a classic Cartagena tourist activity, and touching her (by now very worn) left breast is meant to bring good luck.


	6. Stark

Steve’s hand gripped the doorknob to the debriefing trailer, a single plan in his thoughts; take the fight to Fury, deflect the blame from Bucky. Two somber, black-clad determined souls bent on defending their positions, they stood matching eye twitch for eye twitch, a wobble-legged table between them, hands flat on either side, they leaned in towards one another. The volley of accusations and questions batted back and forth monitored by the over-bearing projected image of Tony Stark.  
  
Fury waded in, “Get Barnes in here, Rogers. He’s part of this team isn’t he?”

Steve countered, “He is part of this team. He chose to sit this out. You threatened him the last time he heard from you.”

“He stole my helicopter. I wanted it back.”

“He gave it back. No harm done.”

“He’s not stable. Winter Soldier spotted in Cartagena. Do you know how many news agencies carried that headline?”

“He fulfilled the mission. Anyone care about that headline?”

“All of you fulfilled the mission. He nearly destroyed it.”

“We’re here with the targets, with the weapons. Mission complete. He was part of that.”

“He’s a mess. He hasn’t talked to his therapist in weeks. You’re aware of that correct? His being on my team is contingent on his participation in therapy.”

Steve shrugged, “We’re all a little behind in that department.”

“So he’s blowing me off? I specifically asked for him to be here. We need to talk about what happened, and he’s doing what? Giving me a middle finger?”

Steve paused before answering, “No. He’s not.”

Fury broke the stare-down to pace away and back again, “You didn’t tell him.”

Steve straightened to shift his gaze to the image of Stark, he didn’t answer.

“You can’t protect him forever.” Fury’s words echoed what Steve already knew. He squared his shoulders, content that Bucky would remain as promised safely on the jet, he let Fury’s questions fall to the background as he turned his focus to the swiveling image of Tony Stark looming over the room.

  
Fury shifted gears,“Who are these women? What do you mean they’re fake?”  
  
Sam jumped in, “The women are real. I have the scars to prove it. They are real administrative assistants. Did I get that right?” He glanced towards the blanket-wrapped Beebee, enshrined in a wooden chair, an anxiety-fueled frenetic bounce to her knees, a raised middle finger her silent answer.

“Nice. Barnes teach you that?” Sam dumped their confiscated haul on the table, “One ratty plaid suitcase, two replica Chitauri weapons, six wet C4 detonator caps, a bag of slimy nuts and two wanna-be arms dealers, employees of a movie prop storage facility. You’ve met the eloquent Beebee over there and the brawn of their operation, Maymay, is currently chewing on the interior of the SUV. And no don’t let her out.” He two-finger raised the open trail mix bag, “That was trail mix once, you can deduct the cost from Steve’s paycheck. Barnes picked out the dried blueberries. You’d think he lived a deprived life the way he eats. You should have seen him picking through this, touching every piece, it was grossly unhygienic, sadly obsessive really.” His voice trailed off as the room stared at him.  
  
Beebee seized the silence, “Where do I sign to throw that damn Maymay under the bus. The bitch. This was not how my vacation was supposed to end. I had no idea they were real arms dealers. Please, I have to get home, I only left three days of food for my cats. Damn it.”  
  
Steve allowed a few keywords to settle in his mind as Beebee rambled on about “Playing at being spies and boosting her retirement funds,” his gaze and attention remained locked on the silent, swiveling image of Tony Stark. A quick flick of his wrist, a turn of his eye, left to right, an implied interest in the back and forth of the heated confrontation with Fury. The shimmering image danced across the wall, a hazy representation of the man that tried to kill them both not that long ago, now reaching out to work with them, a tenuous partnership made more unstable by a near-disastrous mission. He examined the nagging question from every angle, “What the hell is he up to?”

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

   
Bucky got to the chastising statement before the Voice did, “Some Soldier you are, he snuck up on you loser.” An internal scolding, surprised confusion crossed his face, he scrambled to hide behind a semblance of his former icy mask. The hot flush of panic, chilled by the cold water that clung to his cheek and trickled across over-heated skin, gave way to a tenuous calm. He resisted the urge to wipe his face and allowed his eye to flicker down and back, a head-to-toe threat assessment of Tony Stark. High top sneakers, pressed jeans, black hoodie, a lingering eye on the harsh white light embedded in the gauntlet palms, a steadying breath before his gaze locked into the inevitable stare with the man who wanted him dead.  
  
_“You’re a fucking idiot. Soldat. We could be tucked in bed with the Captain right now, but no, you had to get drunk, had to piss off Iron Man.”_  
  
A red gauntlet finger wagged at the water bottles scattered on the tarmac, “I hate to cut short your pathetic moment here. Sad and maybe just a tiny bit funny, the Winter Soldier playing bottle soccer.” Raised hands waved, a throaty huffed, “Scooooore.” The short laugh fell away, “Game’s over. Time to make good on your promise, or did you forget?”  
  
The faint side-to-side move of his head, Bucky’s hint at his answer, he fought down the familiar swell of nausea that cramped through his gut. An urgent, burning pain beneath his sternum, a forced swallow of too little spit to keep from puking up his stomach contents. Bucky dared a glance towards the windows, a tilt of his head to peek at the debrief trailer, a silent hope to see Steve running across the tarmac. Eyes darted back in a heartbeat.  
  
Stark tapped his ear, “Rogers isn’t coming. I’m listening to the debrief, you know how those are.” A quick pace along the quinjet opening, he sing-songed, “Boring.” A turn to retrace his steps, “Or maybe you don’t know.” A red metal finger directed at Bucky, “Hydra didn’t include you, right? They wouldn’t include a weapon in a debrief. You were just an asset. No wonder you sit them out. Nothing to offer.”  
  
_“You are the asset, Soldat. Nothing more. A weapon, not human, not equal. A thing to be used.”_  
  
A shame-driven heat gave way to his anger, an entwined rush that reddened his skin choked back his air and demanded a leap across the passenger bay, a chance taken with the repulsors, to dig metal fingers into a vulnerable throat. Muscles tightened, weight shifted, a toe stuttered forward, the uncontrollable tremor ticked his head, a split second hesitation before lunging.  
  
_“He’s a bastard. Do it Soldat. Your death will be glorious.”_  
  
A muttered, “Not glorious,” grabbed at his step, a pause that let Bucky replay Steve’s words “I want you safe” the ghosted sensation of hands on his cheeks, lips teased close to his own, he reined in his obedience to the Voice and stood his ground.  
  
Taunting words and a huffed laugh, “Glorious? Hardly.” A waved hand called him forward, “Come on, I told Rogers to tell you when I’m ready; I’ll take you up on your offer to surrender. This fits my schedule. Boring board meeting, piece of shit surrender, cleansing mud bath, intimate dinner for two.” The arm extended, open-handed wag of fingers urging him to cross the bay, “Let’s go.”  
  
Anxiety pushed Bucky’s leg into a rhythmic tapping spasm, he drove metal fingers into his thigh, pinching skin to pucker blue and black trying to distract its crawl across his flesh. A scrambled recall of conversations with Steve, a fight to remember missing details, uncertainty showed on his features, doubt raced across his face, he struggled to hide his confusion.  
  
_“You might consider letting the Soldier handle this, Soldat. You seem to be losing your shit here.”_  
  
Stark let his arm drop, “What’s the matter, he didn’t tell you? So Rogers is keeping secrets from you. Why am I not surprised?”  
  
Bucky’s locked on stare faltered, eyes darted right then left, doubt leaped in when his mind raked through remnants of words shared with Steve, searching for a hint that he’d told him Stark would come to collect on his debt.  
  
“ _You can’t remember because he didn’t tell you. I warned you about this. He’s keeping secrets from you.”_  
  
The beckoning wag of red metal fingers followed Stark’s command, “Look, I’m on a tight schedule.” Anger crept into his tone, “Let’s go, you gave your word. Chop-chop.”  
  
Confusion stepped aside for survival, Bucky tucked away questions of truth and loyalty to allow a cold, measured assessment of his next best move. Eyes darted right for the windows, still no Steve, he glanced left to the backpack, three long steps for his guns, short distance, poor planning leaving them there, high risk for injury. A hand on his knife, easy move, dive away, an efficient toss towards Stark, only one attempt, six long seconds, make it count. Tuck, roll and rise in his face, nine seconds, hand-to-hand better odds without the Iron Man suit, unless it’s there and he can’t see it. The click, click, click evaluation rolled to a finish in his mind, a settled cold, firm gaze locked again on Tony Stark.  
  
“Well, decision made.” Stark smirked, “You first. I warn you, I’m extremely confident I can fuse your body to the bulkhead before you twitch to make that calculated move. Just think of Steve, finding your skull embedded in the pilot’s seat.”  
  
_“Do it Soldat, you’ve wasted enough time. He’s got the upper hand, take the loss, an arm, a leg so what. It’ll cauterize, you keep going. Do it. You pathetic loser.”_  
  
Tight muscles coiled, a deep grounding breath pulled in slow and subtle, hiding the boiling heat of anticipation, his brace to make his move interrupted.  
  
Stark pointed at him and paced, “Tell me something? You said you remember all of them. Do you remember one more than the other? Or is it all equal? Is it based on the amount of blood, the degree of brutality? A post-mission Hydra cookie. What?”  
  
A choked and whispered, “What the fuck?” Tumbled out of Bucky’s mouth, a pulled ragged breath to quiet the tremor that ripped across his muscles, Stark’s questions enough to sidetrack the plan to fight.  
  
Stark stalked forward, finger pointed, “You gave yourself up. You sobbed at my door. Did you forget already? ‘I’m so ridiculously sorry’ that’s a direct quote, happy to play you the tape.” His relentless steps drove Bucky to stumble back, an attempt to hold the space between them. Stark pressed on, “Was that the alcohol talking? In that case, I’m happy to end your shit life right now.” The heated glow of the repulsor dead center on Bucky’s chest reflecting Stark's anger, “So, a lie, a game, a blackout, or did you just forget?”  
  
Bucky’s mind tripped through the blood and brutality woven into his past. He held close the answers to Stark’s rapid-fire questions, the sought after blackout that never came, mission rewards of unwanted sex, cold floors and darkened cells, wounds of punishment without release, the encompassing comfort of cryostasis. He stuttered his answer, “I didn’t forget.”  
  
“You didn’t forget what? Who you killed? That you swore to give yourself up? Is this a brainwashing side effect? Intermittent memory loss. I should write a paper on that, we’ll use your brain posthumously when you donate it to science.”  
  
_“He’s right you know. Death is the best atonement. Not toy guns or destroying_ _the_ _rapid transit in Boston.”_  
  
Bucky’s eyes closed, a roll of his head betrayed the momentum lost when the Voice said what he already knew, the only true atonement came with his own death. He fell lost in his own thoughts when Stark’s words spoken close to his ear cut across his hearing.  
  
“It’s Rogers. That’s why you’re backing out. One more good fuck with Rogers. Is that it?”  
  
The too-close to truth accusation spoken within inches of his face startled Bucky to scramble backward, shoulders collided with the wall, gauntlet hands blocked his slide to escape, the trapped-driven shudder and frozen panic kicked open the door to his life in the Red Room. Accusations echoed, the Soldier, eyes down, contrite and chastised, surrounded by black-clad men. A stern-faced woman, the fiery sensation of electricity coursing through his body, the only name he knew her by Mother. Angry words tossed back and forth between her and a man, tall and dark, rage swirling around him; hands on his body dragging him away, the distant sounds of a young woman crying.  
  
_“Your stupidity got that girl killed. You just couldn’t keep it in your pants.”_  
  
He shook his head, a muttered answer to the Voice, “No. Not true. Not what happened.”  
  
Stark frowned, “Not true? Okay, fine. Not sure what Kiev was about or the moist talk. Be that way. Now, let's get out of here.”  
  
_“You’re weak. He knows about Kiev, did you hear that? He knows. You need to end this. Kill him.”_  
  
“No, I can’t do that.” His answer to the Voice’s demands, his gaze shifted towards a spot over Stark’s shoulder, drawn to the shadow form of the Voice that stress pulled from his mind.  
  
“No? Look you piece of shit.” Stark’s hand shoved his back into the wall. “If you fight me here, now. Rogers is going to come running out of that building, screaming your name. No shield. They’ll be a fight, someone’s going to get hurt. Did I mention no shield? I have the suit, I told you, modifications, it’ll be Siberia all over again. You made a promise. He’s going to get hurt. Is that what you want?”  
  
_“Kill him. He’s going to torture us. He’ll kill the Captain. Is that what you want?”_  
  
Bucky’s eyes stayed locked on his shadow companion, his words meant for him only, “No. I won’t do it.”  
  
“Damn it.” Stark’s frustration made more evident by the sudden jolt of the repulsor's fire tearing through the jumpseat next to Bucky’s leg. Burning heat, smoldering cloth against his thigh dragged forward the searing pain of hot knives pressed to his flesh, inflicted for control, not meant for cautery but to subdue his fight. Stark’s voice morphed into the sounds of Russian words growled in his head, demanding his cooperation, “Do it, Soldat. Get over here. Obey your commands. If only you’d obey the first time – we wouldn’t have to hurt you like this.”  
  
A hard shiver ran through his body, cold sweat dripped down his back, Stark’s demand to turn around, repeated twice and a third time fell victim to the Russian words screaming in his head. A red gauntlet hand grabbed his shoulder, his body lost its tension, the spin to shove him face first into the wall, received no resistance. Pounding heartbeats throbbed into his temples, he strained to look over his shoulder, to keep the Voice’s shadow in his sight.  
  
Black metal handcuffs dangled in his vision, Stark’s words overwhelmed by the rising cacophony of the dead that roared back into Bucky’s mind, “A gift just for you, vibranium, King T’Challa made them for this special occasion.”  
  
Muscles fell slack, fight-or-flight succumbed to the pressured click of a handcuff locked around his metal wrist, a final rush of panic slipped away when the tight cold metal embraced his flesh hand. Bucky let his body go slack pressed against the wall, eyes closed, he gave in to Stark’s gauntlet hands on his body. Scrapped skin at the nape of his neck, unrecognizable whispered words hot against his ear. Stark dragged him away from the wall, he stumbled, his hair caught in the gauntlet’s grab of his collar, a mixed memory of the pleasure-pain of dark nights, hands pulling his hair, Steve’s fingers raking along his scalp. Stark shook him upright.  
  
_“You’re a fool. Soldat. Giving in. You like this don’t you? Being tortured. Being used.”_  
  
Bucky hesitated, “No, no I don’t. I don’t want this.”  
  
“Too late now. We are done. I told you I’ve got a timetable here.” Stark shoved him forward.  
  
Bucky staggered towards the ramp, directed by Stark’s hand on his back, shadowed figures filling in the empty space, faces of the dead forming around him, the sounds of dying filling his ears, he dragged his steps, reluctant to be shoved into their midst. Stark’s hands on his body, pushing him forward, pulling him into the sea of the dead, bloody hands reaching out, a slap to his face, sharp nails digging into his skin, none of it visible to his captor, all of it as real to Bucky as the day it happened. His thoughts slipped into the dark space of emptiness that protected what was left of his mind all those years with Hydra. His will slipped away as Stark shoved him towards the tarmac to fall to his knees surrounded by his ghosts.  
The near to real shadows circling around him, dark-dressed men, laughing at him, dim lit cells, backroom safe houses, hands on his head, stroking his hair, dry, calloused fingers raked across his cheek, forcing his mouth open. A sob fought to the surface, he swallowed it down, he couldn’t hold back the choked out words, “Please don’t make me do this.”

  

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

  
  
Fury’s voice joined in the bubbling noise that teased Steve’s what’s-wrong-with-this-picture concentration. The low rumbled protest, “We vetted this mission, the meeting is real, the weapons are real, we’ll tear this apart and find the problem.”  
Beebee’s litany of swearing had evolved into a full-on wail.  
Natasha argued with Sam about who actually put the scratches on his face, threatening to side with Barnes in all future conflicts if Sam had egged him into a fight. Citing “You’re the responsible one.” Sam arguing that Bucky, “Is capable of being responsible if anyone actually held him accountable.”  
Steve continued to stare at the swiveling, repeating, silent image of Tony Stark.  
The too silent, too repetitive image of Stark.  
He ran a hand through his hair, closed his eyes, a replay of the last thing Stark said to him. “When I’m ready to take what I’m due it’ll be on my damn terms, not his.”  
He put a hand to his ear, “Buck? Are you there?”  
Sam weighed in, “You’re as delusional as he is if you think he’s still wearing that comm-link. He tosses that as soon as he has eyes on you.”  
Steve took one last look at the image of Stark and headed out the door. His “Shit. Bucky,” caused Natasha, Sam, and Fury to follow hot on his heels.

   
  
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

Steve’s heart pounded in his chest, the tight cold air burned in his lungs, the throb in his temples sending a not-familiar ache across his brow as he raced towards his worst fear. His skidded stop close enough to see the fear on Bucky’s face, arms bound behind him, kneeling in the snow, tremors shaking the sweat-soaked tendrils of hair that fell across his face. He stayed hands raised, a tenuous coil of ready to move and caution, he glared at Tony Stark but sent his quiet words towards Bucky, “Hey, you okay?”  
  
Bucky squinted in the last light of dusk, recognition chased confusion across his features, the only answer he would offer, a quick flash of acknowledgment gave way to fearful disconnection. Steve knew the look; the fixation of his gaze on something beyond the real, muttered conversations, a realization that the seizures wouldn’t be far behind.  
  
Steve shifted his focus, “What the hell are you doing Stark. I thought we had an agreement.”  
  
Tony moved metal fingers to regrip Bucky’s throat, forcing his head to press firm against his thigh, he aimed a palm-up repulsor towards Steve. “I am doing what I told you I would do. Taking him in. My timetable, the van is on its way. You knew this would happen.”  
  
Bucky’s begging glance up, rocking his head against Stark’s leg, a muttered plea “Please don’t make me do this, please I’ll do anything you want. You can fuck me. I don’t care. Just don’t make me do it in front of him. Please.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Fuck you? I don’t want to fuck you. I want to kill you, if I can’t have that, I’ll be happy with The Raft.” Stark drove a knee into Buck’s back knocking him off his thigh but held the choking hold of his throat.

Steve’s angry surge forward, held back not by the threat to himself but by the glowing flash of the repulsor as it pressed against Bucky’s skin. “You’re out of control, Stark. He’s not a threat to you or anyone anymore, let him go.”

“I understand you two are an item. I heard all that moist talk, Kiev, the safe word. Rogers, how very 21st Century of you.” Stark leaned towards Bucky to add, “No conjugal visits where you’re going. Sorry.”  
  
Steve’s anxious steps paced back and forth, daring to move close, pushed back by Stark’s repeated shake of Bucky’s head, “You son of a bitch. You’ve lost your mind. He’s sick, look at him. Does he look like a threat? He’s about to have a seizure. You see those tremors, the sweat, you see how he’s staring off at something we can’t see? That’s the precursor to a seizure. Let him go.”  
  
Bucky’s gaze swung towards Steve, his breathing quick and ragged, the tremors distinct and uncontrollable, a near sobbed warning, “I can see her. Steve, I can see her.”  
  
“Don’t say it. Buck, it’s not real. Don’t say it.” He dropped to his knees, blocking his view of what he knew was a vision of Maria Stark, “It’s okay, you don’t need to say it.” Steve begged, desperate to keep him from telling Stark, his reach to touch his face, held when Stark jerked Bucky away.  
  
“It’s her. I can see her.” Fear rasped through Bucky’s words.  
  
“Please let it go, I know you can see her. Trust me, let it go.” Steve stood up, his move to get closer, calculated, measured, a plan to take the chance with both of their lives.  
  
Tony barked, “What kind of bullshit is this? You’re seeing things? Going for the insanity plea? Stark leaned closer, his eyes followed Bucky’s gaze, “It’s black out there, no one is out there. Maybe you are crazy. Who are you seeing?”  
  
Steve’s lunge forward, “No Buck, don’t tell him,” thrown back by the quick non-lethal flash of the repulsor, he scrambled to his feet too far away to stop Bucky’s answer.  
  
A tremulous, whispered, near to innocent secret shared, “Maria Stark. She’s right there. She comes to me. No words. Just pain. Fingers pressed through my forehead into my brain, everything goes white. She’s coming.”  
  
Stark sputtered, “What? You piece of shit.”  
  
Bucky’s coughed gasp as the metal hand cut off his breathing, “Steve,” his choked word, Stark’s foot slammed between his shoulders, twisted his head and dragging red lines in his flesh, he fell face-first on the tarmac, blood staining the snow. The bright white repulsor, a full-throttled whine glowed hot on his back, the shot flying errant across the tarmac when Steve plowed head-long into Stark’s chest, they tumbled and rolled across the frozen concrete.  
  
Glowing repulsor beams flashed across the night sky, as Steve drove a fist into Tony’s face, he stayed body to body close, an attempt to keep Stark from pulling in the Iron Man suit. The wrestling match rolled through snow and icy puddles, more a schoolyard brawl than a fight between Avengers, the gauntlets fell away as the fight lost steam. Tony fisted his hands in Steve’s jacket, he growled, “He’s mocking me. He’s in fucking handcuffs, on his knees, and he mocks me about killing my mother?”  
  
Steve dragged them both to their feet, he held tight to Tony’s shirt, fists ready, leery of the reappearance of the gauntlets, a struggling angry dance of mistrust between two men who had once been friends, Steve defended, “He’s not mocking you. You have no idea. I tried to tell you. But you’re so full of ego you wouldn’t listen. Asshole.”  
  
Stark shoved his hand away, “You threw away the shield and our friendship for that piece of crap.”  
  
“You don’t know me very well if you think I’d walk away from him.” Steve’s move brought them chest-to-chest.  
  
“You’re on an international watch list because of that thing.” Stark’s wild point towards Bucky brought the red gauntlet back into view.

  
Steve’s lunge for Tony’s wrist renewed the wrestling struggle, the push, and shove interrupted by Natasha’s demand, “Enough. Steve, get over here. He’s having a seizure. Get over here.”

Steve pushed Tony away, he scrambled to lift Bucky into his lap, legs stretched out around him, arms wrapped across his body, his head fell back on Steve’s chest. “Got you, I’m right here, pal.”  
  
Bucky's shivered whisper, “I’m cold,” a faint smile towards Steve before muscles tensed and jerked, gray eyes glazed over, pupils wide and empty, they rolled back white. The shaking rhythmic stiffness bouncing hard against Steve’s body, his head crashing into his chest. Steve’s constant murmured reminder “I got you. Not letting go.” He rode out the jarring powerful roll of tension that tore through his muscles, stole his consciousness, wiped away his safety, wrapped in Steve’s body, absorbed with willingness. “I got you, it’s all gonna be fine. I got you.” Hands ran through soaked hair, pulled blood from his face, words spoken even if he wasn’t sure they were heard. “Never gonna leave you.”

White beamed headlights bounced around them, a large black van sped closer, it’s headlights hiding the occupants, it pulled up next to Tony Stark.

“This could get ugly.” Fury muttered as he took up a wide-stance position, gun drawn a few feet between the idling van and Steve holding Bucky.

“I am so ready for a hot shower, supper and bed, let’s get this over with.” Sam stood to his right.

Natasha moved to Fury’s left, stun wands in hand. They waited for Stark’s next move.

A small shiny metal object lobbed in an arc sailed through the lights from Stark’s toss to land on Bucky’s chest. Steve blinked the keys into focus as the van and Stark sped away.

Steve pulled Bucky’s arm around him, it fell limp to the tarmac, his weight heavy, it pressed unmoving across his body. The ache that started in the center of his chest crawled out from his gut to spread throughout every fiber, tearing at his heart, haunting his mind, bringing him back to that moment on the train. The day he lost Bucky the first time. His fingers dug deep into his neck, searching for a pulse, panic flushed across cold skin until he felt the thready erratic thrumming under his fingers. A close-guarded brush with a sob as he laid his cheek on his head. All-encompassing arms and legs, he rocked his body, pressed tight against his own and whispered, “Not letting go.”  
  
Somewhere in the background, he heard Fury order, “Call an ambulance.”  
Steve shook his head, “No. No hospitals. Call Cassie’s clinic. We’re going home.”


	7. Answers Begin

Bright pinpoints of light scattered across the dark blue-black of a clear night sky danced past the open window as they sped down the road. Cold night air stung Steve’s face and pulled at his hair as he let his head fall back, eyes closed, inviting in faded memories. Two boys lying in the back of a slow rumbling Chrysler, open-window, night sky watched upside down, an echo of Bucky’s laughter as his finger chased the passing stars. Bodies tangled, bare feet flirting in the darkness, falling asleep to the rhythmic sway of travel safe in Bucky’s arms.

  
Steve’s measured slow breath in, long exhale out, an exercise in steadying for his return to reality in the aftermath of their encounter with Stark. Eyes opened to meet Natasha’s concerned gaze in the rearview mirror as she sped them jarring down the road, his visit to the past gave way to the ache of cradling a tremor-wracked Bucky tight to his body in the back seat.

  
The rasped-voice confession spoken against his chest, “My fault, all my fault. I tried to do what you wanted; I stayed on the jet. I didn’t kill him. The Voice kept saying kill him, kept saying do it, do it. I didn’t. It told me, ‘Don’t let him put the handcuffs on’ but I did. It was like them, like Hydra. I was stupid, stupid me. I let him.” A head-shaking whisper hot against Steve’s ear, “They came, the ghosts came, I saw them all around me. Then she came. You know who. I told him, Steve I told him. Shit, now he’ll come after you. He hurt you.” He pushed himself up, a worried stare, “Are you hurt? He hurt you. I’m sorry, so sorry.” Bucky’s hands darted over Steve’s head, touched his cheek, squeezed his arm, searching for injuries.

  
Steve grappled with his wrists, “No, I’m not hurt. I’m fine, I’m sorry, I should’ve brought you with me. I trusted him.” He tugged at bent knees, arms wrapped around Bucky, pulled him close, face to his neck, hand in his hair, dragging him full into his lap, holding the words and tears tight to his skin, “I’m sorry, I trusted him. I was wrong.” Eyes darted to the rearview mirror again, Natasha’s gaze towards the sky, following the crisscrossing shadow of Sam as he led them towards home.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

“No more medications, no more side effects,” Bucky pointed at the petite middle-aged woman standing at the downstairs bedroom threshold, “No more doctors.” His raised voice cracked as he prowled, wet footprints tracked across the wood, water-soaked hair dripping down his body missing the towel wrapped around his waist. The counted-step agitated pace shook the towel loose, Steve pulled it from the floor and followed to cover him from Cassie’s view as she averted her eyes.

  
Steve offered, “She’s not a doctor, remember.” He struggled to wrap the towel around his moving body.

“Yeah, yeah I remember, a nurse practitioner. I know, same but not the same. No more. It’s not working; I had a fucking seizure. You don’t get it. No one gets it.” Six steps to the wall, touch the mirror, six steps back, touch the door frame, repeat. His point towards her as he passed by, “Don’t come near me,” withdrawn as quickly as it happened.  
  
Steve kept himself between Bucky and the door, calmness to balance the fear-driven rage spawned by the Stark-induced seizure. Helpless to counter his panic over losing control.  
  
Cassie’s words sure and quiet, “James, the seizure likely had to do with the alcohol, stress and missing the medications,” spoken from a distance, as someone trusted despite Bucky’s adamant refusal to allow her near him. “You drank two quarts of vodka correct? Then went on a three-day mission, you said you didn’t eat, you didn’t take the medications with you. There was a triggering event. A break-through seizure is inevitable.”  
  
Bucky’s path and tone veered towards her, “Triggering event? What the fuck?”  
  
Steve’s arm around his waist guided him back into the room, “Yup, Stark triggered all of us. Let’s stay focused.”  
  
The flare gave in to the redirecting hand, “Focus? Six steps, Right? Was it six or five? Shit.” He stumbled, lost in his thoughts to regain the count. An eyes closed deep breath to resume his pace, “Yes two quarts. That’s it, two, not three, that’s why it went wrong. It should have been three. No, I didn’t eat, they don’t feed the asset on missions. No, I don’t drag the meds with me everywhere I go. Only their drugs are allowed, not mine.” His veer towards Cassie captured by Steve. Bare feet matched to wet footprints, he tapped a finger to his head, and kept going, “You don’t see it, do you? There are rules. I have to follow them.”  
  
Steve worked to hold his disappointment close; his eyes met Cassie’s neutral look, soft without showing her thoughts. An irrational urge to push her out of the room, slam the door and shove a bureau up against it came and hung around. He turned to intercept Bucky.  
  
A full stop when Steve stepped in his path, Bucky leaned close to whisper, “I have the serum, too, I know it’s not as good as yours, I know I’m defective, it’s not the same, you can’t get drunk you said that you tried, when was that? It didn’t work? Why do I have to take the medications if I have the serum too?” His leaned in tremulous questions shook drops of water on Steve’s T-shirt, feet moving in place, searching his face for answers.  
  
“You’re not defective. It was different, who knows. I tried to get drunk once, a long time ago.” Steve slipped fingers over the edge of the towel, pulling Bucky's hips closer, a whisper “Not now, I’ll tell you all about it later. You’re soaked, naked and hungry, let’s make sure you’re okay.”  
  
Bucky's body compliant with Steve’s pull, as panic rushed across his features. A suspicious glance towards Cassie, he leaned to Steve’s ear, “No needles, no exams, no meds,” his whisper close as their foreheads brushed.  
  
“Fine, how about clothes, food, and sleep. I’ll be with you.”  
  
A metal finger brushed the front of Steve’s pants, “Shower too? Together, right?”  
  
Steve caught and held his wrist, “You were just in there for ninety minutes.”  
  
“Is there a time limit?” His flesh hand too quick for Steve to intercept.  
  
He tugged Bucky’s hand from his crotch and held on, “Cold water for ninety minutes.”  
  
A step, chest to chest, “Wilson gets mad if there’s no hot water. I'm helpful.” Bucky’s mouth brushed his cheek.  
  
“Your lips are blue, and your toes are pruned.” Steve’s skin flushed when Bucky licked his mouth as he spoke.  
  
“So. You used to want to see my pruned ass.” Hips turned to rub between his legs.

Steve fought down the urge to pin his arms behind his back, toss him on the bed and implement the slammed door, bureau barricade but the impending conversation about Kiev and Cassie in the doorway made him change his tack. “I recall you telling me that cold showers are like cryo. Is that what you want, to sleep without feeling? I thought you were over that.”  
  
Bucky went still, “Fuck you.”  
  
“Maybe later. But right now you need to get dressed, eat food and take your meds.”  
  
“No meds, no food, no clothing.” The towel thrown to the floor.  
  
Steve caught his arm, “Enough, let’s go,” a glanced apology towards Cassie before the bathroom door slammed behind them, his foot dropped the toilet seat cover, he pointed, “Sit.”  
  
Bucky muttered, “No.”  
  
Steve’s firm, “Yes.”  
  
A defiant matched in firmness, “Make me.”  
  
Steve square-shoulder faced Bucky's wild-eyed, angry, wet tendrils of hair hanging well past his shoulders, distracting nakedness. A last-ditch spark of logic fired too late as Bucky’s gaze dropped to slide down his body, a smirk as his eyes lingered on the apparent growing bulge. Steve’s sighed and muttered, “Fuck” as he reached to bring their mouths together, was met by Bucky’s “Yes.”  
  
Adrenaline flushed red across his skin, fingers wrapped around Bucky’s head, holding him to the kiss as Steve’s body drove him back, a last-second crash into the wall averted by his outstretched arm. Steve wrestled with taking what he wanted and his growing worry over Bucky’s too-willing acceptance of rough touch, his passive agreement with the deep push of his tongue, the allowed press of a hand around his throat. Kiev as an after-thought or not being used at all. He slowed the kiss; hands slipped to the wall, weight raised enough for light to slide between them. A closed eyes thrill of hands pulling open his pants, warm flesh stroking his cock, a tilted head back ask for Bucky’s kiss to follow, a mingled groan as his mouth pressed hard on his own, driving his tongue deep, stealing away his breath.  
  
Steve raised his arms when Bucky tugged the T-shirt over his head, a conscious mantra to give him this moment, his mind vacillated between submission and command, he fought down the drive to take control. Hands twitched to leave their dark evidence across biceps. Steve held back, wanting this to be Bucky’s choice, moving his body, opening himself to Bucky's mouth pulling at his nipples, flesh pinched by teeth, tongue leaving wet streaks to tease the tip of his cock. Fingers braced gently on his shoulders, a thumb stroking a clean-shaved cheek, not directing or wrapped in hair but connecting, nerve-endings firing with the heat of allowing Bucky to take his body.  
  
Fingers dug deep into his ass, pulled hips, an uncontrolled groan as Bucky took him in, tongue slipping along his shaft, circling, sucking, drawing blood to tighten his skin, a hand-full of hair grabbed and released, a fight to stay passive. Steve’s breath panting as Bucky dragged himself up his body, mouth biting at his flesh until he pulled a bruise below his ear and breathed, “I want you inside of me. Right now.”  
  
Steve rolled his head against his cheek; a muttered, “No,” went ignored as Bucky turned his back, hands pulled Steve’s hips into his own, pushing his ass back, urgent pressure. Steve followed as he laid his weight across Bucky’s body pinned against the wall, face dug deep into his neck, breathing in the scent of soap and years past. He held still, body heavy against taut muscles, mouth pressed to his throat, his hand wrapped around Bucky’s cock, pulling slow, gentle strokes, fighting down the questions of consent and the past, pushing aside haunting imaginings of what he knew and what might have been over the seventy years of being lost. A fleeting wonder if Bucky’s ghosts could haunt him as well, he whispered, “Where are you?”

Bucky stuttered, “What?”

“You heard me, where are you?”

Bucky’s hand dropped to cover Steve’s; fingers wrapped close moving together, he murmured, “More of this, no talking.” Hips pushed back hard to pull a quick groan from Steve when he bounced against his full cock. “Fuck me, Stevie.”

“When you answer me. Where are you?” His hand went limp under Bucky’s. 

“Fine, okay. You win, jerk. Brooklyn. Happy, I’m in Brooklyn.” An insistent roll of hips back, Steve’s smile against scarred skin, his hand fell to his own cock helping to find his way inside Bucky. Metal fingers dug sharp into his hip, tugging rhythmic contact between them, fingers laced in fingers pulled to bring Bucky to come, a convulsing panting shudder shook through his body. All thoughts and questions of the past gave way to the consuming rush of heat that coursed over Steve when the come fell hot around his fingers, the sharp push of hips, the sound of a breathy whine, hand fisted in hair brought him to come deep and warm inside of Bucky.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

“Alright, sustenance, a weapon, communication devices, everything an operative needs.” Natasha winked as she rearranged the end table closer to the sofa, she grabbed Steve’s hand and tested his reach for each item. One beer, an iced tea, two ham and cheese sandwiches, one with lettuce and tomatoes on wheat bread, the other with three tablespoons of mustard on white bread with the crusts cut off, the Beretta, a cell phone, and the TV remote. A check of the phone to ensure it was on vibrate. She knelt at the sofa corner to rest her chin on Steve’s shoulder, “We can stay, maybe we should stay.”

“No, we’re fine, we’ve got surveillance, and I can handle Stark. You and Sam deserve a break, where are you headed?”

“Not far, New York City. Hotel, room service, pool, massage, blah, blah, blah.”

He wagged his head, “No Steve and Bucky.”

She smiled and patted his shoulder. “You are always in our hearts. Are you sure you two are comfortable here?” She waved a finger at the sofa, studying the occupants. Steve propped in the corner; legs stretched out, Bucky lying spread on top of him, arms surrounding him, head resting on his chest, rising and falling with his breath, Steve’s legs wrapped around him. “He’s like a blanket. Can you feel your legs?”

“We’re good. I have feeling, everywhere.” He laughed.

“Here how about a real blanket?” She crossed to drape a throw over Bucky’s back; he didn’t stir. She sat on the coffee table and whispered, “Sleeping meds?”

Steve shrugged and dug a large crushed white box from under his hip; the bright red letters “Cartagena” emblazoned across the chocolate-stained cardboard. “Nope. Sugar Coma. Coconut candies.”

They shared an easy laugh.

“Sorry, I think they were meant for everyone, he got carried away.”

“No worries. I wouldn’t be able to wear my bikini if I ate that.” She smiled again, a reach to tuck hair behind Bucky’s ear, “He’ll be fine, Steve. I know this was a setback, no matter what, he’s a survivor.”

“Yup. We’ll be fine. You should get moving before Sam starts beeping the horn.”

She leaned to leave a kiss on his cheek and headed across the living room. “I’d like to see him try and beep at me.”

The door closed behind her.  
  
  
Steve ran a finger across Bucky’s temple, dragged along his cheek, it came to rest beneath his jaw, soft against his pulse, the gentle thump flirted against his skin, he whispered, “They’re gone.”  
  
Bucky stretched his back, pulling himself to nestle his nose to Steve’s neck, his shoulder rolled, metal fingers came to rest on Steve’s chest, tracing slow, gentle circles, pressed into his skin, “Thank god, they are so annoying.”  
  
Steve’s chin propped on Bucky’s head, “How about you eat something?” He took a sip of beer.

A mumbled, “Later, soon. Promise.”

A bite of sandwich, “You ruined your appetite with the candy, I told you no dessert before supper.” The awkward angle dropped a piece of tomato on Bucky’s head, a muffled, “Sorry,” he licked his hair to clean it up.

“Are you licking my head?”

Steve defended, “I am, got a problem with that?”

“No, but I have other parts that need licking too.”

“On the list, pal, they’re on the list.”

Bucky fell quiet, the lulling pressure of circles on Steve’s chest slowed and stopped.

“Are you asleep?” A pull at his hair and a peek to see his open eyes, “What’s wrong?”

Bucky’s words tense and quiet, “Stark knows about Kiev. He said it. He’s listening here.” A worried stare at the surveillance cameras, “He’s watching us right now isn’t he?”

Steve absorbed the wave of tightness that rolled through Bucky’s body, a slow move to rest his hand on his cheek, his thumb exploring soft skin.

Bucky rubbed his face against Steve’s palm, “Why won’t you answer me? He’s listening isn’t he?”

“No, not here. Sam swept the house; Stark’s not listening here.”

“Wilson? He’s lying.” His pull away caught by Steve’s hand behind his head.

“No, he’s not. We trust him remember? Stark listened to the mission comms. He heard us talking there and so what, he knows about us. King T’Challa’s got our backs; the surveillance is good here.”

Bucky’s pull to sit up failed when Steve tightened his arm around him, “T’Challa? No, he’s not with us. He made those handcuffs, special for me, Stark said so. Vibranium for me. We can’t trust him.”

Steve pulled at Bucky’s metal shoulder tugging him close, tight against his body, a leg wrapped over him, he pushed his head back to let their eyes meet. “Buck, I’m sorry. Stark told you that, what an asshole. They weren’t vibranium, he tossed the keys at us on the tarmac I tried them they didn’t fit, I tore those cuffs off of you with my bare hands.” His thumb brushed across Bucky’s cheek, “He lied to you. He fucked with us, the cuffs, the keys, the SUV, the mission, it was all a lie. I’m so sorry I put you through this, I trusted him.” Steve pressed lips to Bucky’s forehead, tucked his head against his neck, he promised, “I’ll deal with him. We’ll deal with this together.” He reached to place hands palm-to-palm, flesh, and metal, fingers entwined, they fell quiet again, listening to their shared breaths.  
  
“Romanova liked my present,” Bucky muttered.

“Yes, she did. That was very thoughtful of you to steal her a bikini. I’m curious how you knew her size?”

“One size fits all.” Bucky wiggled to adjust his shoulders.

“Not really, but speaking of presents. You have money. We worked this out. Why steal things?”

“It’s your money, not mine.”

“It’s back pay; you deserve it too, what’s mine is yours.”

“And what’s mine is yours except I don’t have anything. Except for my memories. What I remember.”

Steve pulled back, a hand lifting Bucky’s face, “Then give me that. Give me everything you remember no matter how small or hard. Tell me.”

Bucky tugged away to sit up, hands running through his hair, a tremor shook his head, “Tell you what? That they treated me like a thing, that they used me, as a soldier, as whatever. Do you want to know about that?”

Steve caught Bucky before he could scramble off the sofa, the pull held him in place, his words spoken close, “I want it all, yes. One detail at a time, or all at once if it frees you. If telling me lifts the weight off your soul yes. I am here to carry it with you.” He ducked to make eye contact.

Bucky pushed him to lie back down; a crawl to straddle legs, facing him, hands on his chest, a studied contemplation of Steve's face, minutes passed before he answered, “Okay. Maybe. One question. A month.”

Steve ran his hands up Bucky’s thighs, “How about one a day.”

“No, one a week.”

“A week? We'll be dead by the time I know everything."

“Shit, okay, one a day, and I won’t answer if I don’t want to.”

He dragged him back to lie next to him, “Great okay, agreed. One a day.”

Bucky wrapped a leg over him, wriggling to settle in tight around him, “Go. You have three minutes to ask then it’s over.”

“Oh, starting now. Great. Clock's ticking. Question one. Why naked when you’re stressed? I mean I get the cold showers and cryo.”

“It gets you horny.” Fingers traced a line across the bare skin under his sweatshirt.

“True but not true. Asking again.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

The pause carried on until Steve asked, “How do I know the difference between not answering and thinking about answering? So I don’t stare at you for an hour waiting.”

“Shut up.”

“Well, I think that’s a fair question.”

A heavy sigh, “Thirty minutes. If I don’t answer in thirty minutes, there is no answer.”

“Okay, so we have twenty-eight minutes to go.”

They both fell silent, staring at the blank TV screen.

Steve reached for the remote.

“No. No TV.” Bucky’s effort to grab it fell short when Steve raised it over his head; a groaned capitulation without further struggle.

“I want you to hear something.”

“No. I don’t want to hear about me in Cartagena.” Muscles tensed, he stayed wrapped around Steve.

“Nope, not that. I wouldn’t do that. Here give me a minute and listen.”

“Too long, six seconds.”

“Too short, how about thirty seconds.”

Bucky swung for the remote, “Damn. Give it to me. I’ll do it. Will I have to change the channel? How the hell does this work?”

Steve smiled, “That button the red one.”

Bucky’s eyes squeezed shut, the remote aimed at the window, Steve’s hand redirected. He paused.

Steve whispered against his temple, hand wrapped around his head, “Trust me. It’s a good thing. I know you’ll like it.”

“Are you trying to give me another seizure? You know I hate this thing.” Bucky started to toss the remote; Steve caught it.

“Come on, try it, we’ll compromise, fifteen seconds.”

“Fine, okay, here goes. Shit. I hate this.” Bucky hit the button.

The television crackled to life, a slow bouncing image of a logo moved across the screen, the sound that wafted from the speakers low, close to undetectable, Bucky looked up at Steve, a question in his eyes.

“Okay, let’s turn it up.” Steve aimed the remote again, the slow rising music flowed around the room, surrounding them, the full lilt of strings, pulsing rhythm of drums, mixed highs and throaty lows of horns; distinct, familiar calling up warm nights by the ocean, strings of lights, laughter mingling with the thunder of pounding of surf.

Bucky’s arm tightened around his waist, “I know this music.” His metal arm dug up his back, pulling him tight, “I remember this, Steve, me and you listening, Luna Park on Coney Island the concerts outdoors. Was it Glenn Miller?"

Steve's nodded smile brushed across his hair.

"It was crowded, summertime, your shoulder bumped mine, I remember, I didn’t move, neither did you.” He fell quiet, chin propped on Steve’s chest, staring off at the image, not a ghost or a Voice but a memory, the two of them, laughing, skin touching, safe together, he caught Steve watching him and smiled, “We knew about us even then. We knew.”

“Yes, we did.” Steve touched lips to his forehead. 

Bucky's soft expression held, no twitch of his head or hint of distraction in his eye when the Voice weighed in.

 _"The question. You promised him an answer. Punishment, Soldat. Humiliation, a tool. The asset doesn’t own anything, not weapons, not clothing, not even his dignity.”_  
  
  
A crawl to rest his head on Steve’s shoulder, fingers wrapped in his sweatshirt, a nuzzled eyes closed tight-to-him hold, a hand stroked long slow lines down his back.  
  
A whispered secret shared, “Punishment, Soldat. Humiliation, a tool. The asset doesn’t own anything, not weapons, not clothing, not even his dignity.”  
  
The words took time to creep into Steve's sense of how they fit in, at first an odd comment, a puzzle then coming clear and cold. An answer to his day one question. 


	8. The Origin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky recalls past non-con touch and a brutal mission gone bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Readers. Thank you so much for following! You are greatly appreciated!  
> <3 <3

Shadowed limbs billowed around his body, wisps of memories caressing his skin, a rippled tingling chasing itself under his flesh, electric arousal woven with fear. His breath caught sharp when half-formed hands tightened leather straps, binding his chest, hips jerked by ghosted fingers that threw the gun belt around his waist, the tongue and buckle hard pulled to settle into place. His body jolted by knives shoved firm into the sheaths tucked to the small of his back, calloused hands jerking his limbs, shaking long hair against his face.  
  
The ritual dressing of the Soldier, a methodical task for unknown men demanding his submission, expecting his mind to allow their caress, his body to give to their touch. He stood compliant, allowing the tug and pull, hands that did their duty but slipped discreet fingers hot against his skin, dared to slide full-palmed across his buttocks. Unrecognizable cold stares taunted his eyes to meet theirs, drawing the unspoken line for him to cross and fight their touch as hands smoothed the fit and lay of his clothing, the sit of holsters to his hips, the straps tight around his thigh. Not so discreet fingers lingering between his legs, rough pressed palms cupping his balls, a thumb's hard stroke down his cock, the smirk visible to his eyes without a turn of his head. Expectations of compliance, allow the exploration, the taking of his dignity. An early lesson in fighting the unwanted touch stripped naked and chained where every soldier could see him. The schooling repeated until he learned to hide the twitch to grab their wrist, to slice open a delicate pulse, his true-self crouching smaller in his mind, seeking invisible, scurried away to the compartment Hydra hadn’t reached, consoled in the arms of a nameless boy.  
  
  
The Soldier’s flesh pressed confident to the trigger, weapon held ready, his steps in slow-motion an approach to a ramshackle house, his mission clear; no sounds as his hand ripped the door from its hinges. An empty-minded search, focused on an image of his targets, side-to-side eyes intent, head tilted to pull in a whimper or a frightened breath, the tick of thick sweat hitting the floor, the Soldier hunted his prey. Rooms came and went, filled with faces, blank and staring from his past, touched by his hand, but not this time, not the ones sought in this dream. Floating steps pulled him to a door, his foot connected, shattered wood flew inward tumbling up, lilting sounds of music as it disappeared above his head. Eyes flickered to question its splintering then back to faces that shimmied in the murkiness of nightmares, their features slipping in his mind’s eye, moving and dodging recognition.  
  
Words rose up through the veil of his sleep, “You can’t have them.” A man, tall and thin, white hair and mustache, eyes telling of recognition, unmoving lips called him a name teasing the edges of the Soldier’s memory. The man’s demeanor familiar, an echo of times long past, the whispered thought that the man was out of place, not part of this story, it swirled past his vision and disappeared.

He focused on the barrel of a gun, flecks of dark powder clinging to black metal, death waiting inches from his forehead. The man faced him, feet firm, undaunted, blocking the Soldier’s path, features lacking in fear, he stood his ground.

Cold gray eyes shifted past the man’s shoulder to rest on his targets. A woman’s kind eyes turned hard, her vengeance called up the seizures, he wondered how she’d taken a wrong turn to find herself facing him, so far from her place in his history. His gaze dropped to a teenaged girl, gangling limbs, defiance etched in features older than her age, dark hair that morphed to red, a glimpse of someone he knew, then slipped away again.

Raised white-knuckled fists caught his attention, a skinny young man stepped defensive in front of the girl, furrowed brow, determined, an echo of a back alley fight. His mind’s eye shifted to the youngest, held in the arms of the woman, fingers dug into her coat, face wet with tears.  
  
The dreamed images jumped and lurched, a child’s muffled crying, the gun pointed at his head, his weapon raised, two arms extended facing one another. The woman’s voice shouting Cyrillic curses, words new to his ears, uncertain of their meaning, the intent clear, the man and woman stood between him and his assigned task. The stated mission repeated by his handlers shouted and whispered in his ears, dragged before the architect of the plan; the Soldier dutiful, obedient, lessons learned in the bowels of his captivity, his unused voice repeated, “Bring three children back alive.”  
  
The old man’s face loomed before him, intent, defiant, unafraid meeting the Soldier’s emptiness, stance firm but the hand holding the gun inches from his head shook as he pulled the trigger.  
  
Bucky’s head jerked as the dreamscape bullet seared along his temple, fingers twitched a reflexive pull of a non-existent trigger. The white-haired man crumpled at his feet. Whimpering cries as blood ran from the corpse to snake around his ankles, red tentacles creeping upward, circling his thighs, laid across his groin, claiming his body, he choked to pull in air. His conscious mind screaming at him to wake before his hand wrapped around the woman’s throat, tightening until she fell away, the imprint of his fingers black on her skin.  
  
Real-world sweat clinging stubborn to his cheek, a reminder of the young woman’s spit when he laid his hand on her body. His metal arm clenching emptiness to his chest, a remembrance of the toddler plucked from the woman’s arms. His dream-self turned to leave, two children in hand, he knew the boy would follow, fists pounding his back, a knife pulled from its sheath stabbed deep into his thigh. Grunted pain that rolled him in the bed, the Soldier kept walking towards the end of his first mission. A test of his obedience.  
  
Panted breaths and held-close moans as Bucky fought to wake from what his mind knew was about to come. Feet kicking to free himself from covers, hands reaching to drag himself out of the darkened pool of his past, desperate to break free, the nightmare refused to be denied.  
  
The first shot sent fire tearing through his shoulder, eyes pulled to the dying child gone limp in his arms, their blood mingling in strands of red, tricking through his fingers. His hand slowed by the unexpected, the reach for a gun too late to stop the next death. The boy’s body slammed into his thigh, fingers clinging to his belt, blood splattered down his leg, filling his boot. The third shot snapped the girl's head to bounce against his chest, fierce eyes lost their brightness, flecks of hair clung to leather straps, a swath of blood dragged down his body, her weight spread across his feet, dead eyes glassy staring up at him.  
  
The Soldier’s head twitched. Resolve slipped to horror, he met the woman’s unapologetic stare. 

Hissed words spoken close to his own lips, “They are better off dead than go with you.” 

A loving caress of the dead child’s hair, she brought her hand to the Soldier’s cheek, blood scratched deep into his flesh, her accusing finger slow-motion drive to penetrate his forehead, his body unable to move, searing pain marking the deaths across his soul. “I won’t kill you, you don’t deserve that escape. Instead, I curse you. Live with the ghosts of your dead forever.” Russian words uttered with deliberation, meant to embed their power into his brain, cross the divide of languages, her hand gripped his long hair, jerked his head near to her's as she pressed the gun barrel to her temple and pulled the trigger.

Red washed through his vision, eyes burning, blood splattered hot across his skin. Burnt flesh, spent gunpowder filling his nostrils, the stench insinuating itself into his brain forever locked within his memory. Ears aching from the deafening reverberation of a shot fired close. Metallic taste on his tongue, warm liquid clinging to lips afraid to move, matter sitting lodged on skin, stuck in his hair, hot in his mouth. Her body toppled soundless to disappear into thin air.

Uninvited tears washed streaks of blood down his cheeks, a staggered step back, his feet tangled in the body of the man, he dropped the dead child and fell backward, landing hard, his head hitting the floor to shake bright white points of light through the curtain of red. Dark, gritty boots shuffled around him, his body jerked and rolled in on itself covering his belly as hard-toed kicks sent the sharp memory of pain meant to urge him to his feet.  
  
_“Get up you piece of shit. Look at you. Some Soldier you are, crying at the dead. Get on your feet before your handler gets here.”_  
  
Bucky sucked in air that pushed out an aching scream when the Voice’s command tore him from the nightmare. Hands flailing, feet kicking at dreamed red tentacles, his knees shot pain up his thighs when he crashed to the floor tangled in the bed sheets. Hot skin chilled by sweat, his palms leaving their faint print on the wall as he tried to steady his scramble to free himself. Anxiety tightened his chest with every panicked gasp for air, he crawled across the floor and staggered upright. Bare feet stumbled, he caught himself on the door frame, his mind struggling to separate real-time from his past, tremors stealing his equilibrium. Steve reaching to catch him. His choked response, “Don’t touch me” not the answer he wanted to give, but had to say.  
  
Steve’s voice cut through the dream’s last hold, “I’m here, it’s not real, It’s over.” He moved with him, inches away, a hand extended, not touching, his words low and calm, “I’m right here, you’re safe. Let’s walk it off.” The warmth from his body brushed against Bucky’s bare skin, pulling him in, he leaned to close the gap, but his gut forced him to move, staggering down the hallway. Knees hit the floor again, a whining moan as he scrambled towards the toilet, hands braced on the coolness of the water tank, head held low over the bowl, retching until there was nothing left except the dryness. Bucky’s naked body convulsing in spasms as the vomiting subsided, tense muscles shaking, head pounding with the mixture of sickness, dreams and the taunting of the Voice.  
  
_“You’re pathetic. Retching and sobbing. Even those children didn’t cry. Toddlers don’t count. No puking before they died. Their legacy was hating you. Fond memories though, the soldiers laughing at you. You couldn't piss for a week after they were done leaving heel prints on your kidneys. You had to be rescued by the handler. That handsome man, you remember him. Gentle hands, blue eyes. The one you gutted when you finally had a moment of clarity. He looked a lot like your Captain.”_  
  
Bucky clung to the porcelain, a long low moan tore at his throat, fighting the Voice’s dredging up of the past, pushing the nightmare to the back of his consciousness. Head hanging low, sweat-soaked hair clinging to his cheeks, he searched for Steve’s words drowning in the loudness of the Voice.  
  
“I’m right here. I got you.” Steve steadied his tone, tucked away the anger that twisted his gut with every tortured night that dragged Bucky from their bed. He dropped to rest his knees within a hair’s breadth of his calf, keeping his promise made with reluctance to give him space, follow close without interfering until Bucky could say his name.  
  
“It’s me. Can you say my name?” Fingers clenching shut and open, his thoughts screaming for him to cover Bucky’s nakedness, his memory drifting back to the question and answer a few hours earlier. “Humiliation” echoing with new meaning as Bucky’s shaking sweat-soaked body knelt in front of him. Steve’s resentment rose against everyone who had ever laid a hand on him. Reaching to console him then pulling back, a hesitant urge to place his hands on his skin. He said again, “Say my name.”  
  
Bucky’s body shook, he slumped back on his haunches, hands flat on the floor, trying to say Steve’s name, the word formed in his mind, his voice disconnected not allowing him to say it out loud. Frustration drove his hands into fists the tension sending rippled cramps down his back.  
  
_“Speaking of the Captain. Your First Avenger. He seems to be working out nicely as your new handler. Here to rescue you. Soft voice, wipe away the tears, brush off the blood. Push back your tormentors. Quite the hero. Clean you up, fuck you stupid, throw you right back into the fight. Just like the First Handler. Go ahead, say his name. I give you permission to remember him.”_  
  
Steve’s begging whisper, “Please say my name." He kept eyes intent on Bucky’s face, turned away and hidden by a curtain of hair wanting his words to pull him back from the nightmare. A tilted head gradual move, gray eyes wary and searching, the flash of recognition replaced by fear. Steve braced for his lashing out, a metal fist rose towards his face, he held back a reflexive move to block the fist, trusting Bucky. Metal fingers opened, spread wide a heartbeat before connecting with his cheek. The fingertip of metal stroking his beard, a tenuous caress of recognition, a mouthed word, expectant eyes connecting, waiting for the softness, hoping against the emptiness and fear.

A moment of doubt when Bucky’s eyes darted away, uncertainty showing, Steve’s thoughts flashed to a story Bucky had shared about the handler that looked like him. Hydra’s earliest tool to hold control, to fool him into compliance. Steve caught Bucky’s hand, a careful roll to expose his wrist, a slow, eyes-connected move to press lips gentle to the sensitive metal, certain he would feel it. Confident and intimate, Steve kissed the close-guarded place discovered during their nights together, learning Bucky’s body old and new, he pressed the metal palm to his cheek, watching his eyes for recognition.  
  
Bucky’s gaze followed the soft brush of lips to metal, the drag of Steve’s tongue along the grooves, mouth pressing warmth to imprint on his palm, the lustful taking in of his fingers. Bucky fell in closer, head bending near to Steve’s, forehead to temple drawn in, aching for his mouth to press to his own, he hovered close enough to catch the scent of his skin, his nose tickled by the brush of his beard.

Steve’s near eyes-closed question,“What’s my name?”

Bucky rolled his head to rub cheek to cheek, palm slipping to the nape of Steve’s neck, fingers stroking his chest, he whispered, “Steve.”

  
  
  
  
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

A slow and calculating descent into the tub avoiding all contact with Bucky’s skin allowed Steve the shiver he needed when his toe first slipped into the frigid water. A body-still breath-holding pause with his hand on the wall, eyes scrunched shut until the shock of the cold dissipated. A deliberate, teeth-clenching lowering of his body to fit tight behind Bucky, his arms snaked around his waist a sharp tug pulled him to his chest, laying them back against the wall. “I don’t know how you do this, pal.” His gritted words spoken into Bucky’s hair, he rubbed his beard across his ear, a teasing nip of teeth to his earlobe, Bucky’s head lolled back on his shoulder, arms wrapped around Steve’s thighs.

A promise made and kept. The nightmare and its aftermath intense beyond anything in their months sharing a bed, Bucky shaken in ways Steve hadn’t seen since the beginning, without the medications, when the ghosts ruled his days and nights when he tried to kill himself. Tonight’s insistent demands for the cold comfort that was reminiscent of cryo hard to defuse, Bucky went from bathroom to bathroom with Steve in pursuit turning off the water, following him, begging him to come back to bed until the final compromise was reached. Steve offered to join him.

“Okay fifteen minutes, then we dry off.” Steve struggled to keep his teeth from chattering.

“No time limits. Special circumstances.” Bucky’s muttered response.

“Disagree.” He closed his knees to find a sliver of warmth in gripping Bucky closer, “My limit’s fifteen and if I’m out so are you.”

“Wimp. I’ll stay.” He maneuvered his feet to wrap around Steve’s, the tangle of skin connecting overpowering the cold.

Steve rolled his forehead against his shoulder, “No, together. We’re in this together. Fifteen, I’ll dry you off, how’s that?”

“Really?” The cherished sensation of Steve’s hands roaming over his limbs made better when it involved a towel, slow-pulled, giving attention to each and every inch, “Okay, maybe.” His thumbs followed the long sinew lines of thigh muscles, deep enough to twitch nerves, not enough to cause pain.

Steve’s fingers spread claiming on Bucky’s chest, a brush across each nipple, just shy of arousal, more than casual. His eyes-closed nuzzle of his face into his hair, making up for the frigid temperature of the cold water bath. The question came out without him thinking, “What was the dream about?”

Bucky’s fingers stopped moving, “You asked a question already.”

A quick defense, “It’s four in the morning, new day, new question.” Knees tightened to distract the return of tension. He waited for an answer.

“ _He'll think you’re an idiot if you tell him the truth. Mission failure. Lie to him. Tell him about the dogs, or that time you had to drink your own piss to survive. Hell tell him about the abuse, he might get off on that, then there’s the Fake Captain, or tell him about...”_

Bucky’s answer stumbled out, “Stark.”

Steve shook his head, “I’m sorry. He’s not gonna hurt you, I won’t let him.”

“Not that one. Howard. He was there, so was...” Bucky’s words fell off, a pull of his shoulders put space between them. “They didn’t fit, you know how dreams are, people in the wrong place and time.”

“ _Better yet, a truth within a lie.”_

“Where were they.” Steve wanted to know and didn’t.

Bucky’s hand slipped from Steve’s leg, “First mission. I think so. Yeah, first,” fingers immersed in the water. “Retrieve the package, they said. I said it back.”

“ _Enough, Soldat. These are memories best kept buried.”_

Bucky’s eyes closed when Steve pulled hair from his face, the slow drag of fingernails along his scalp, a reassuring caress that pulled the words forward. “The man wanted them back. Bring them back he said. Alive.” Bucky’s voice slipped to distant, his body moved a fraction to bring more space between them, he whispered, “Mission failure.”

Steve felt the change, the near confession coming, he pulled to close the space, willing his strength into him, determined to keep the ghosts from stealing him away again. Hands spread wide, head buried next to his cheek straining to hear.

“Couldn’t pull the trigger. Couldn’t save them. Everybody dies. Except me. And Hydra.” Bucky’s gaze slipped off to the past, focused on things only he could see.

Steve pulled at his cheek, “No, don’t look at them, look at me. Only me, come on.” He tugged to turn his eyes to connect with his own, Bucky twisting in his arms to let their eyes meet, the distance in his gaze causing Steve to change his mind. “You don’t have to answer, remember. No games.” Steve’s thumb dragged along his jaw, fingers cupped behind his neck. “No more. I’m sorry.”

A slow nod to agree, a press of his cheek to rub harder into Steve’s palm, he whispered, “Three.” 

Steve spoke his words with lips brushing the metal shoulder, “Right, three is your number. Only numbers divisible by three.”

Bucky nodded, he brought his forehead to lean against Steve’s temple, eyes bright, lost in the past, fingers tightening to press deep white marks in flesh, his voice shaking and secret, “Children. Bring them back alive. Died rather than come back with me. I couldn’t pull the trigger. What’s better? Die there, quick, bullet to the brain? Or die slow, used up, sold to the highest bidder?”

“No more, Buck. You don’t have to say anymore.” Steve’s hand ran across his cheek, trying to stop his words, he tugged his head to his shoulder, pulled his feet closer, wrapping him in his arms. “I’m sorry, no more questions.”

“ _There’s a price to pay for betrayal, Soldat. Order only comes through pain. You know this.”_

Bucky let Steve’s arms pull him in, his head fell to nestle on his shoulder, breathing in his scent as his lips brushed light to the pulse at his throat. Arms entangled around one another, long-lost sleep begging to be revisited, his murmur caught faint by Steve’s ear, “Three. Alive. Children.”

  
  
  
  
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

Steve spoke loud enough to be heard in the loft. “I’ll leave it right here.” Routine words forever changed, a pause before he continued, “Third step. Three blueberry bagels, not toasted, chive cream cheese already spread on them. Three napkins. Hot chocolate. No marshmallows. Good to go when you’re ready.” His glance towards the floorboards above his head didn’t reveal Bucky’s location, but the promise that he would be there when Steve got back had been firm, eye contact direct and solemn. He settled on a milk crate in the doorway to the old barn, his company invited to be closer, his decision to stay by the door as Bucky took the space and time that he needed to recover.  
  
A smile hinted on Steve’s face when he replayed the answer to his question “Chive cream cheese on blueberry bagels, why?” Bucky’s profound and simple answer, “Because I can.”  
  
The old rust-colored barn sat a few hundred feet from their house, peeling white painted doors slid open, Steve sat ankles crossed, legs too long for his make-shift seat, sketch pad propped in his lap, he opened to the next blank page. His gaze followed the red-orange glow of the sunrise that crept along the horizon, spilling its brightness onto the landscape, rippling up the yellow and white of their house. Wet grass, brown from winter’s onslaught, the snow retreated across the fields and left only spotted mounds of white more in the woods than close to the house.  
  
His pencil moved with ease across the page, the house in the background, summer on his mind, he added the picnic bench, a grill, and Bucky, the familiar smile, a memory from the distant past, not given as freely now. Every roughed out scene had Bucky; curled on the chaise lounge, napping in the sun; straddling Steve’s bike in the driveway, his words echoing in his memory, “Let’s do it on the bike, Stevie.” A close to out-loud laugh. A star-filled night, Sam sprawled on the picnic table, Natasha’s tenuous climb towards Bucky on the roof outside his window. A story told with laughter when he could tell the tale without reservation.  
  
No sounds or shadows told him of Bucky’s approach, no shift in scents or dusty residue falling on the pages, what he felt was his presence. The warm prescience that crept unannounced into his thoughts whenever Bucky came near him, growing stronger every minute of each day together, recreating their history and building on it, he knew without lifting an eye or a turn of his head that he was kneeling behind him before his forehead laid gently on his back.  
  
“Better now?” Steve closed the sketch pad, his head turned enough to catch a glimpse of Bucky’s hair. 

The slow nod spread warmth to his skin. Hands slipped around his waist, fingers interlocking at his belly, a smile when he saw his sweater’s too-long sleeves covering Bucky’s hands. No need to ask why he wore it, a given between them now, holding close the scent of one another on skin, and sheets and clothes. “Good. You need to eat more.”  
  
Bucky’s weight spread wider across his back, shoulders matching, deep breaths moving his body rhythmic behind him, hips pressed close, the gentle rolling push against his ass not a tease or foreplay but a hint of what could be. Steve’s eyes shut, fingers dug in to tangle with Bucky’s, head falling back to brush against his mouth. The easy way they fell to positions, Steve engulfing Bucky, protecting him, taking him, a natural progression of who they were together. This felt different, powerful, enticing, a desire Steve wanted to explore, a request he resolved he would ask when the time felt right, for now, he reveled in the sensations. His lost-in-the-feeling cut short by Bucky’s quiet statement.  
  
“I know where he is. I know how to find him.”

Steve asked, “Who? What are you talking about?”

Bucky never moved from his hold, hips continued to press their gentle reminder, but the words didn’t fit, “The man. The one who wanted the children back. I know where he is.”

“Buck that was how long ago?” Steve straightened his back enough to bring a small space between them, “You’re not even sure of the date, you said the first mission, so over fifty years ago. How can you know he's not dead?”

“My memories. They’re all right here.” He tapped a finger to his temple. “Remember Boston? I was right. I knew where Hydra was, even when they tried to hide it. I knew. I still know.” Bucky broke from his hold on Steve, he reached beside him and placed a worn cardboard shoebox on the sketch pad in Steve’s lap. His hand laid with care on the top. “It’s all right here. Written down from here.” A finger to his temple again then returned to tap on the box. “I’m not wrong. He's in there, I know it, I want to do now what I couldn't do then. Stop him.”  
  
Steve stared at Bucky’s guarded possession now entrusted to his lap, the shoebox full of stickie notes, maps and scraps of paper with scrawled out names and dates, locations and bank accounts. The pieced-together jumbled trail of clues exorcised from his memory when he first came out of cryo. A manic-driven, hallucination fueled marathon of data hidden in the tactical room in the midst of Bucky’s break-down. His insistent, hard-to-deny conviction that he knew more about Hydra than Hydra knew about itself had proven to be true.  
  
Steve turned to let their eyes meet. A hand to his face, fingers wrapped in the long hair, he tugged their foreheads together and said one word. “Yes.”


	9. Words Not Spoken

Natasha’s outstretched flat palm told Sam all he needed to know. He vacated the driver’s seat, slapped the keys in her hand and settled into the passenger’s side. The fall into a tired silence as she drove away from the house opened the door to a long protected memory, a secret shared with Barnes. Repeated questions of “Do you remember me?” Always brought a denial until the mission in Boston, a shared close-call stirred the question again. That time he answered, “Yes.” She held to her promise of never speaking of it again, but their first encounter stayed close in her mind.

<<<<<<<<<<

  
Red-auburn hair pulled up to a pristine bun, utilitarian knee-high boots, a jacket nondescript, a young woman strode with a clipped pace, eyes straight ahead, efficient and lethal despite her twelve years. A matched step and look to her mentor, she followed in her wake through the winding streets of a darkened town to find refuge in a dingy safe house. An overnight haven, not the best of choices, bunking with uniformed Russian men not foolish enough to challenge the young Widow and her Madame, a place to rest and hide before moving on. Natalia Alianovna Romanova projected aloofness, and buried her reservations, a fledgling, still in the Red Room’s nest she navigated the huddled soldier’s gruffness and ignored their side-long stares.  
  
Her eye drawn to follow a man set apart from the others, a Captain’s insignia on his uniform, his singular focus on the basement door, a quiet coming and going. The hovering behavior made intriguing by what he carried down the stairs but didn’t bring back; a cup with a dry crust of bread dropped on a spoonful of beans. Once the Captain’s attention moved to others, curiosity pulled her to skirt past the cluster of men who’d lost interest in her presence she slipped unnoticed down the stairs to a shadowed and damp basement, harsh lit by a single bulb.  
  
Thick metal bars stood square in the center of the room, the near corner of the cell contained a metal pail with a lid, cautious steps forward showed no cot or chair for comfort. Quickened heart beats thrilled into her chest when her eyes fell on a man sitting cross-legged in the center of the cage. Stripped down to dark boxers and a sleeveless shirt, he sat hunched over in silence, bare feet tucked tight beneath him, not revealing if he heard her approach. She wiped away the faint gloss of sweat that broke across her palms as she took in the cascade of unkempt hair dark and long, a barrier to his features. A held breath when she watched his faint movements, a cup held possessive, two fingers slow pulling the food to his mouth, a deliberate prolonging of a scant meal.  
  
Her novice steps quiet she willed her heart to stop pounding, a move to glance past the fall of hair barring her view of his eyes, it brought light to reflect bright against his shoulder. A tilt of her head gave a rush of excitement that toyed with her gut, a red star painted on a hard surface, her gaze fell to take in the man’s arm from bicep to fingertips, shimmering metal.  
  
A flash of the Red Room stories caught her breath, told at night in the dark by the girls, hushed tones and dream-like. The story of the Winter Soldier training the young women, girls like her, a supposed tryst discovered, a price to be paid. Caught up in the tale of love affairs gone wrong, romantic notions of clandestine meetings and lovers beating the odds, whispered mouth to ear over the years, turned the story into something it wasn’t.  
  
A ripple of shivers coursed through his body drawing well-meaning words spilled out in a pressured whisper, an offer of a blanket, more food, and water, all met with no indication he heard or noticed her presence. She wondered if he didn’t understand Russian, a fair attempt at English received the same response. A careful move to close the space between them, heart pulsing at her temple, she ducked to find some way to make their eyes connect. An ache of sorrow flirted with her heart as he hid behind the shadows and his hair to lick his fingers and slide his tongue across his lips to savor the last hint of the food. Her hand caressed the metal bars, an unexplained drive to connect she held back the urge to reach out, to try and push the hair from his face, to let their fingers touch.  
  
A remnant of schoolgirl excitement drove her to switch to a flurry of questions; was he the Winter Soldier from all those years ago, did the lover really exist? She wondered aloud if the story was true, they had escaped together only to be dragged back, a tragic ending to the fairy tale passed down by the girls of the Red Room.  
  
The Soldier’s eyes never raised to meet hers, the hint of a tremor slipped across his body when she asked about the woman, his hands tucked deep beneath his thighs when she spoke of the Red Room. Her voice fell quiet as she sat cross-legged, knees pressed to the bars, hands tucked under her thighs, her gaze intent on the fall of hair hiding his face.  
  
  
In the end, she was dragged from the basement, her clothing torn, a near assault thwarted by a saving metal fist, one soldier dead, another injured, her mentor’s sharp rebuke evident in her eyes. Natalia stole a searching look back through the crowd of soldiers. The sound of flesh sizzling under the press of a stun prod, the man in the cage on his hands and knees, gritting silent through his punishment, a last-second glance up, gray eyes connecting with hers, he watched her walk away.

  
  
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

  
Natasha maneuvered the car down the driveway, onto the dirt road then settled into the lulling hum of an empty highway and the promise of rest and relaxation. The echo of her first meeting with Barnes tearing at her memory. A replayed ache at watching the seizure on the tarmac, her mind fell back to finding him in a pool of blood, wrist cut wide open, unresponsive in the kitchen. Images pulled at her heart, the brokenness of Steve, the rhythmic press of hands on Bucky’s chest, dragging him back into this life. Back to face the pain, living with the guilt and the voices. The quiet hope of his body sprawled across Steve’s on the sofa, wrapped in his saving embrace, finding his way home.  
  
A tight-jawed internal resolution to get to the truth, the tires squealed their complaint when she spun the car around less than five miles from the house to head in the opposite direction. A one-handed juggle of her phone, she speed-dialed Fury.  
  
Sam braced his hand on the ceiling and a foot on the dashboard, “I take it New York is out of the equation?”

 

<<<<<<<<<<

  
“I have one question. Where’s the spa?” Sam’s voicing of his displeasure began with a tsking noise as soon as Natasha shifted the car into a one-eighty turn. It built to a crescendo when she took the access road that led to Fury’s headquarters in one of the refurbished 1970’s missile silos that sat silent across Upstate New York. A rumbling mantra of ignored complaint that continued as he trailed her deep into the bowels of the facility. “I was promised a spa, filet mignon, roasted red potatoes, tiramisu, and wine. This did not include doing the dishes, sullen ex-assassins or arguing over the relative economy of paper napkins versus cloth ones. I want the wine, where is the wine?” His rant wrapped up when they arrived at Natasha’s spontaneous rendezvous. “Beer then, at least a beer?”  
  
Fury stood dark-clothed and grim, outside an interrogation room flanked by two guards. He shook his head, “We have hot running water, there’s a microwave in the mess hall and a vending machine with decent mac and cheese. That’s the best I can do.”  
  
Sam’s roll of his eyes serving a dual purpose, his response to vending machine mac and cheese and the image visible through the one-way glass window to his left. A clear view of a robust woman in an ill-fitting bright orange jumpsuit, hands cuffed to her waist, sitting in the center of the room, an armed man at each shoulder. “Great. Where’s the mess hall? Nat’s got this, you don’t need me here.”  
  
Natasha’s curt nod gave Fury the go-ahead to open the door, they stepped inside, including Sam.  
  
Maymay’s husky voice echoed her immediate protest, “Oh, thank god, a woman. For heaven’s sake tell them orange is a disgusting color, it wrecks havoc on my skin tone. I can’t scratch my nose, with these horrible cuffs keeping my hands here. This is outrageous treatment, I am just a secretary, my boss sent me to Cartagena because I needed a vacation, I had no idea they were arms dealers. He told me to sell those damn replicas to the highest bidder. What the hell is a Chitauri anyway? There are people out there that love movie memorabilia. Do you know how much that stuff pulls in? They don’t even know what they’re buying. He told me to sell those stupid toys, we bought them at a yard sale in San Fernando Valley six months ago on a trip to California, some kid built them for an indie horror movie that never got out of his basement...”  
  
Sam pulled in a long, deep breath, crossed his arms and stood in the far corner, a willing yield of the room to Natasha.

  
Fury retreated to face the one-way window, a slow, cautious drop of his forehead to rest against the glass.

  
Natasha allowed a corner of her mouth to hint at a smile, a mental image of her knuckles cracking, a controlled step to lay a hand on Maymay’s shoulder, she bent to whisper, her breath warm on her ear, “The Winter Soldier says ‘Hello.’”

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

Gnarled toes burrowed deep into plush carpet giving way to spring back with each soft step forward, heel-to-toe, a slow-paced stride past open doors. Bright oblong patches of early morning sun spilled through uncurtained windows to lie across the softness, warmth then coolness repeating as bare feet roamed towards the East facing corner room. An awkward near spill of coffee as a hand reached to brush a faint patina of dust from the “Donations” plaque by the door. Serpentine navigation of gently-used furniture, year-old laptops, and last year’s now obsolete coffeemakers brought Tony Stark into the streaming light of a new day in front of the floor-to-ceiling window.  
  
A slight turn of his head allowed a vague reflection, a hazy mirror image that drew his self-assessing glance. Hair ruffled and topped with glasses perched on his head, the looseness of silken sleep pants, a half smile at the vintage thread-bare Grateful Dead T-shirt beneath a cherished robe. Eyes darted away and back to stare deep and hard at his own face. Tight-jawed tension, fatigue written in lines that creased across his forehead and pulled at the skin around his eyes. An old familiar tightness crawling up from his gut to spread insidious across his chest.  
  
A shaken angry return to the Avengers Facility hours earlier to toss the Boston Hydra data into the air, holographic images of names and places, research combed again for clues. The torn apart and dumped upside down Intel competing with the memory of Steve’s unrelenting passionate defense of the man who had killed his parents.  
  
Confusion balanced the rage with every echo of Bucky’s words. Fear laced tones, begging phrases, words not quite understood at the time but mulled over in the dim light of his lab in the middle of the night. A muttered secret, “What the hell did they do to him?” Discarded with contempt at the replaying of Bucky’s voice speaking his mother’s name. A question demanding examination, “Why give up so easily?” He fought with the image of fear that crossed his enemy’s face as he dragged him off the quinjet. A hand laid flat on a table, eyes closed recollection of the vibrating tremor picked up by gauntleted fingers when his hand wrapped around a sweat-soaked throat. Pacing a line corner to corner and back again, debating the implications of ‘Please don’t make me do this, you can fuck me, not in front of him,’ he returned to the same question, “What the hell did they do to him?” Always losing to the sound of Bucky’s rasped terrified whisper, “Maria Stark --- comes for me.”  
  
His night of restless pacing, drowning in the Hydra data sent to him by Bucky’s own choice, debating his next move, phone in hand, the proper authorities dialed and aborted, wanting his revenge and not, ending with a sliver of doubt. The final image settling in his mind’s eye, Bucky’s seizing body surrounded by Steve’s tight embrace, wrapped together on a dark and wet tarmac.  
  
His wrestling with the aftermath of the last few days, hate turned to questions, hurt giving to concern, Stark settled into a state of resentment that flirted with remorse. A winding down retreat to the far corner hidden away room that afforded him the first view of the sunrise as it rose above the treetops, he mulled over his next move.  
  
The morning’s contemplation interrupted by the pinging of his phone.  
  
“The plan was to reconcile with Rogers, not try to kill his best friend.” Natasha’s voice not unexpected.  
  
His gaze dropped to study curled toes digging into the softness beneath his feet, “Carpet or wood for flooring? Let’s debate. I’ll go first. Carpet. Mohawk. Color: Sea Serenade. Deep pile, high traffic compliant. Go.”

He interrupted before she could speak, “No wait. I forgot the best part. Completely recyclable. Now your turn.”  
  
She ignored his deflection, “You reached out to me. You asked if the Hydra data would help you reconcile with Rogers. ‘We need to move past this, time to make peace,’ your words. It ended with fake weapons, wayward secretaries and Barnes terrified, in handcuffs having a seizure. Was that the plan all along?”  
  
A turn to negotiate through the furniture, “Change in plans, happens all the time.”  
  
“There isn’t going to be a reconciliation with Rogers after this. He and Fury think you lied to them about the data. That this rush mission in Cartagena was a set-up.”  
  
A curt laugh, he shrugged, “I lied to them? Not so bad. Better than thinking I was wrong or did shoddy work or my analysis was faulty. Lying is an acceptable alternative. As is keeping my cards close to my vest as they say.”  
  
Natasha shot back, “So you lied? You sent us out on a mission just to screw with Rogers?”  
  
Tony deflected, “That thing fell apart out in the field. You said he was stable. Taking medications, getting help. ‘Trust Rogers if you can’t trust that thing.’ Your words.”  
  
She countered, “I didn’t call him a thing. Did you lie to us?”  
  
“He’s unstable, a danger to everyone and Rogers is still defending him.”  
  
Natasha opened a small window to her frustration, “I’ve spent the night with Maymay. The weapons are fake, the arms dealers are secretaries, you vetted the details. Did you lie about the data? Did you set us up?”  
  
Tony’s winced expression brought a hand to press against his sternum. He balanced the coffee cup on the arm of an overstuffed chair while he dug in the robe pocket, “Let’s talk antacids. Me first. I really prefer the berry fusion smoothies over the chewy delights,” He popped a handful of chalky tablets in his mouth to crunch in her ear, “How about you?”  
  
“Tony, I’d like to think all of this is deflection. We know you heard everything on the comm-link, you know how Rogers feels about Barnes. I can understand something about how hard this is to see him find some peace. And maybe you’re right, he deserves to be punished. Maybe we all do.”  
  
Stark didn’t answer.

Natasha pushed, “I’m asking you again, did you lie to us?”

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

“ _You’re an idiot if you think you can take The Architect down, Soldat. You’ll be back in the fighting pits. Your pretty boy Captain will be drawn and quartered and that asshole will be picking his teeth with Steve’s bones while he watches your blood get spilled like a modern day Roman gladiator.”_

  
Bucky’s step caught short by the Voice, a hesitant mutter, “Not a gladiator.”  
  
Steve paused on the basement stairs with Bucky’s hesitation, “No, we’re not sparring. Come on. Let’s go over your notes in the tactical room.” A finger looped into the knit of the sweater, as it hung over metal fingers, hand sought hand to be tight-wrapped together as Steve pulled him towards the main communications room at the house.

The Voice’s taunt showing as an unobserved twitch of Bucky’s head. The press of metal to flesh, palm to palm heat swinging in Steve’s favor in the battle with the Voice for his attention. A faint lagging back to let Steve’s insistent strength pull him forward, craving the feeling of being led, giving in to him, allowing his will to win out even in the simplest of tasks. Bare feet padded across the soft give of the gym mats, recessed light crept alive with each step, brightening the ceiling, they stopped at the keypad entry to the tactical room. Bucky’s cheek pressed to Steve’s shoulder, rubbing across the firmness, his mouth glancing along his hairline, nose dug deep behind his ear.  
  
Steve’s quiet laugh at the distraction, “I can’t get the password right,” he pulled Bucky’s hand to his mouth to press lips to metal, a lean back invitation to keep his body warm against his own. The green light blinking and click of the door opening pulling Steve’s steps to head for the room.  
  
_“This is not the mission. Abort. The asset doesn’t plan, doesn’t think, doesn’t seek revenge.”_  
  
Bucky muttered again, “Not revenge.”

Steve glanced back,“Maybe a little revenge,” he pulled him through the doorway.  
  
Soft overhead bulbs flickered on spilling pools of light down the long wooden table that dominated the room. Darkened computer screens filled the far wall, neatly packed and organized gear hung in the cubicles to their right, whiteboards covered the wall to the left. Steve forged ahead, dropping Bucky’s hand, “I’ll get the computers up and running, you go through that box of yours, let’s see what we can come up with. Do you remember his name?”  
  
_“Soldat, you never knew his name. Only The Architect. The Asset had no need for the names of who controlled him. Only the names of the dead.”_  
  
“Arkhitektor” an absent lapse into Russian, the head shake ‘No’ slow and hesitant, a required answer that nagged at his memory. He crossed to stand near the gear cubicles, shoebox clutched to his chest. A focused watching of Steve bringing to life images of world maps shimmering on the screens, sending a green-blue glow to wash across his skin. Bucky took him in, gaze intent on his face, lashes brushing soft on cheeks, hair long and near to the collar of his shirt, tucked behind an ear, an errant strand hung loose to dangle near one eye. All of Steve, his look, his scent every move and muscled twitch sending warmth to flush red across his skin.  
  
_“All of your struggles to fight off our programming to save him, your stupidity will get him killed in the end anyway. Forget about this mission. Get him into bed, he’ll give it up.”_  
  
“Take me to bed.” Bucky’s blurted ask, quiet and awkward.  
  
Steve’s soft laugh, “Sure, soon, let’s see if we can find a name or location.” His adjustments moved the images closer, colors changing, landscape moving, his gaze studying the maps.  
  
_“Lame Soldat. Go distract him. Grab his balls or stick your tongue down his throat. You know what to do. Your mission is to stop him.”_  
  
Bucky shuffled his feet, a tug-of-war struggle between insistent commands and the push of his own thoughts, he ran a hand through his hair, tugging to dislodge the hold of the Voice.  
  
Steve glanced over his shoulder, “A location? Where were you at the time?” He moved to the whiteboard, drawing two columns, “Where did you meet him? Russia? Germany, somewhere else?” A studied look back towards Bucky, the distracted glances, the return of the tremor not lost to his constant eye. “What’s in the shoebox, you said he was in there?” He pointed at the crumpled box tucked close to Bucky’s chest, a gentle encouragement, “Dump it out here. We’ll go over it together.”  
  
_“Negative. This is not mission compliant. Do not show him the contents of your memories. This is against all of your programming.”_  
  
Bucky moved to pour the contents on the table, he rearranged the papers and stickie notes, pushed some aside, then back into the center, a shuffling disarray of uncertainty. A struggle to defy the Voice. A single metal finger settled on a folded square of white paper and held it pinned to the table. A pulled in bite to his lip, his eyes drawn to a shadow in the corner, a flicker towards Steve when he sensed him watching, only to settle back in the corner again. 

Steve’s concern laced in his question, “Can you remember his name? Where you saw him last? Can I look at the papers? Buck, are you listening to me?”

  
_“Distract him with sex. He’s watching you. Look at him you idiot, he sees you staring at me. Make the damned eye contact.”_

Bucky blinked hard as he switched his gaze from the shadowed corner to connect with Steve, a tremor shook his hand, a slow and careful slide of the folded piece of paper across the table towards him, his body followed. Knees on the table, he slow-crawled forward to settle kneeling in front of Steve, mouth parted, hands spread full on his chest, want evident in his eyes.  
  
Steve had to touch him, no choice, no amount of concern for his distracted gaze, the one-sided muttered conversations, none of it could keep his hands from gripping Bucky’s thighs. Thumbs dug deep into muscle, a gentle push to slide his legs apart, he pulled to fit himself between his knees, chest to chest, his words not matching his own actions, “What are you doing?”  
  
Eyes-wide-open, locking on Steve’s he leaned to taste his lips, a long slow drag of his tongue slipping beneath the prickle of the beard, finding the deep pink of his mouth taking the last bit of flavor. A soft, insistent whine when Steve’s eyes began to close, fingers dug into his chest, a sharp demand to stay open, obeyed when their gaze stayed connected. Bucky’s body gave in to the pull of Steve’s hands on his ass, tugging hips forward, lifting him to press groin to chest. He broke the gaze first to raise his head, releasing Steve to take exposed skin, his neck open and inviting, long hair spread down his back, Steve's fisted tug pulling a low hiss; an eyes-closed giving over of his body. A sharp breath when teeth found his skin, his mouth pulling blood to leave red welts across his belly. Hands wrapping around Steve’s head, a subtle direction of his hunger, fingers twisting in hair grown longer at his whispered-in-the-dark request, a quiet moan as Steve laid claim to the tender flesh of his groin. The flush of heat that spread across his body weakening taut muscles, his body pressing to Steve’s, weight heavy on his shoulders, whispering “Take me to bed.”  
  
The taste of Bucky’s skin pulled up distant memories of Brooklyn, city heat on a summer’s night, the chill of a draft in winter, sweet and salt mixed together, always there underneath sweat and soap and leather. The craving ache to taste his flesh settled deep in his gut. Fingers slipping under the sweater, shoving it aside, clearing his path, tugging pants to allow him free access to the skin he knew was his now. Jealous possession, intrusive thoughts of Bucky’s past, a surge of anger drove teeth to leave their mark in intimate places, a less than rational move to warn away the past. The soft aching moan that rumbled in Bucky’s chest, a tell of his wanting the marks. Hands twisting in his hair, directing his mouth, helping him find the tender patch of skin waiting to be taken, soft whispers of “Yes,” his breathed approval of Steve’s claiming.  
  
The underlying tremor that teased under Steve’s fingers and pulsed against his mouth kept him from finishing Bucky right there on the tactical table. A reluctant pulling away, dragging his head and hands up his body, he tugged Bucky’s hands from his hair, fingers entwined, their eyes meeting. A soft kiss pulled back from letting Bucky delve deeper, he whispered against his mouth, “I have a question.”

Bucky tried to bring their mouths together, a push to overpower him, “No more questions.”

Steve shook his head, “This one is for now. Right now.”

A lunge to drive his tongue into Steve’s mouth held back by hands cupping his face.

Steve insisted, “Yes a question. Look at me. Come on.”

Gray eyes met his.

Steve fought down the rush of heat as metal fingers pulled open his pants, the raking fingertips that brushed against his cock told him to forget the questions, to give in to Bucky’s open want of him. A head tilted back escape of Bucky’s chasing mouth, a gritted mind-numbing attempt to ignore the slow stroking of his flesh, his question stumbled out, “When did you stop taking the meds.”

Bucky’s body tensed, soft lips slipped to a tight grimace, fingers stopped moving, jaw muscles tightened under Steve’s fingers that didn’t let go.

Steve asked again, “When did you stop?”

Bucky tried to pull away, hands holding him in place.

A firm, “You promised to tell me. You swore you’d talk to me first.”

He squirmed to break away, “Guidelines not rules.”

Steve hard pulled him, shaking him, foreheads near pressed together, “No, not promises. Your word. Stronger than promises, nowhere near guidelines. Your word.”

A hint of a whine, “I don’t know, I don’t remember.”

Steve worked to keep his anxiety close, the tight knot gripping his chest with every fleeting thought of what life was like before the medications, “Why? I get it you missed a few doses on the mission but this what I’m seeing now. You stopped them long before this mission. Why?”

“I hate the way they make me feel.” An attempt to sit back on his haunches, Steve’s hands on his face keeping him up and close.

He ducked his head to keep Bucky’s eyes on him, “Stable? You hate being stable. Is that it?”

“No. Tired, fat, drooling, everything in slow motion. No more meds.”

Steve’s quick counter, “Seizures, ghosts, suicidal thoughts, more than one Voice, puking, what am I missing? Oh, wait, getting stuck on the porch, in the bathroom, in the gym, on the deck."

Bucky pushed at Steve’s chest, his attempt to separate more of a gesture than real, “Fuck you.”

“You’d risk all of that coming back because you might drool at night? I’ve got news for you pal, you drool without the meds, so too late.”

“No, I don’t. Liar. Besides you snore.”

A huffed laugh, “I’m perfect remember. No snoring. Come on, what is it really.”

Bucky rearranged to sit on the table’s edge, legs wrapped around Steve’s thighs, heels locked around his knees, his face still caught in Steve’s hands, “You know already, you see it. I know you want it, want me to, I want to.”

Steve raked fingernails across Bucky’s scalp, his face and caress softening “Want to what?”

Head tilted to press into the fingernails, his thumb teasing the length of Steve’s cock, “That. You know. You want me inside of you. To fuck you. I can’t do that. Not on the meds.”

Steve’s hand stopped moving, a lean back to make their eyes meet, “Erection? This is about erections? You stopped the meds because you have a hard time getting an erection?”

Bucky’s hand fell to his lap, eyes averted, “Yes. It’s not funny. So don’t laugh.”

A tug on his hair to look at him again, “I’m not laughing. You’d risk voices and hallucinations so you can get an erection?”

A tentative whispered, “No.”

Steve struggled to hide his frustration, “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard in 100 years. You tried to kill yourself, I know you don’t remember a lot of what happened, but I do, I almost lost you. The way you looked at me, terrified, distant. No, you can’t do this. I’ll make you take them if I have to. I can’t believe this is about erections.”

Bucky’s louder answer, “No. not about erections, not like that. Not for me. For you. To take care of you.” He reached to run his hand up Steve’s thigh, a slow push to embrace his ass, fingers searching to hint at his intention, a warm, close whisper, “Be inside of you.”  
  
Steve held still, the rush of realization ran a different kind of heat across his skin, hands slipped from Bucky’s cheeks, to rest on his shoulders, long slow breaths in and out to steady his thoughts. He took in the look of confusion, mixed with sincerity, near to innocence that Bucky offered up with his logic.

He let a few heartbeats pass to make the words sink in before answering, “Buck, you already take care of me.” A careful caress of his thumb along his cheek, “I don’t need anything more than what we have right here, right now.” Eyes closed kiss to his forehead, “If we never had sex again, I don’t care.”

Bucky wrapped his fingers around Steve’s waistband, ankles tucking him closer, “I do. I want to take care of you, I need to do that. You’ll get tired of me. I need you.”

Steve’s mouth covered his words, a rush to fill him with all the emotions boiling over in his chest, hands grabbing his body, tongue pushing deep to stop his logic, hoping his actions would wash over him to understand what he was about to say. He pulled back enough for their eyes to meet, “I, Buck, I need you. I’m not going to get tired of you. I need you. Never ever forget that.”

Bucky’s faint nod, “I need you too.”

Steve tight wrapped his arms around Bucky, the cold sensation of regret began to creep across his mind, tightening his chest, the words he wanted to say lost in his answer, he opted to move on, “Let’s go. Upstairs. Taking meds, going to bed. To sleep. The mystery man will still be here after a few hours of rest.”

Steve threw Bucky’s arms around his neck, hands on his ass, lifting him off the table. Legs wrapped around his waist, face tucked to his neck, he carried him to their bed.  
  
Bucky closed his eyes, mouth pressed to skin, a hint of a satisfied smile.   
  
  
_“Well done, Soldat. Well done.”_


	10. My Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys got a little graphic on us!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for following! Your comments, hits, and kudos are greatly appreciated. ♥♥

“ _You’re a fucking idiot, Soldat. Get off of him.”_  
  
Bucky tightened his thighs around Steve’s body, stubborn clinging, watching his hand fumble with the white labeled bottles, lined one-two-three in a row on the bureau. Metal arm encircling shoulders, fingers digging deep into a bicep holding himself tight wrapped. Warmth spreading through his belly when Steve shifted his weight to balance on his hip, fingers searching beneath his sweats to lay broad and firm across his ass, flirting with the tenderest of skin.  
  
Deliberate giving over of control, not allowing or wanting separation, Bucky dropped his head, temple resting on a temple. Gaze intent on a one-handed struggle with the bottles, eye next to eye, lashes brushing, a languid move to place lips on Steve’s cheek, his tongue stealing a taste of his skin, distracting him from the task, knowing full-well what his mouth did to Steve, he glanced sidelong at his progress with the pills.  
  
_“Distract him then. No medications. Remember the glory days? Delirious fighting, righteous resistance. Up pills, down pills, stop this, start that, control the Soldier, take away the Captain, kill the Voices, you told them about us. Idiot, what did you expect? You don’t want this.”_  
  
A shiver at the Voice’s insistence, he breathed his answer into Steve’s ear, “I need them, Stevie, get them.” Bucky dug his hand under Steve’s shirt, fingers connecting with taut muscle, sliding beneath the grip of his own thigh, spreading wide-palmed crawling down to toy with coarse hairs. Caught breaths matching as his hand pulled heat from Steve’s skin, sweat wetting his fingers, sensitive flesh twitching under his touch.  
  
_“Cover your eyes, take away your senses, pry open your jaw, shove them in, choking on their fucking pills. Lessons learned for all of us. Next came the white dressed woman, needle in her hand, sweat breaking at the small of your back, purposeful stride straight for you. Hardline smile knowing what she’d do to you, knowing you couldn’t fight her plan. A nod to the men, take him down, hold him down, give me his skin, pull his hip free, hold him you fools. Cold needle sliding into your ass, sharp and burning pain to bliss to sleep to be lost and thoughtless and used against your will.”_  
  
  
“Not the same.” Words nearly inaudible, his head rocking slow against a temple, “I trust him.”  
  
Steve’s thoughts stumbled through anxiety to regret to simmering anger at hearing Bucky’s whispered conversation with the Voice. His hand didn’t falter as he pulled the pills from the bottles to make a palm-open offering, “Here we go. One white, one blue, one capsule. It sucks, I get it but so does falling apart.”  
  
_“Don’t be a fool. Knock them out of his hand.”_  
  
A soft-spoken answer, “My hands are occupied.”  
  
“Maybe get your hand out of my pants and take these meds,” Steve’s firm tone not supported by the keep-him-close press of his head against Bucky’s, breathing in his scent, body aching to tear away his clothes when a fingertip grazed the tip of his cock. His own hand slipping deep between Bucky’s legs, sweat breaking on their bodies, mingling where skin touched skin.  
  
  
_“Why so willing now? Because it’s him? Same pills, different hand. You’re a fool. You used to fight the medications. Loser.”_  
  
Bucky whispered, “Bring your hand closer,” An uncertain gaze intent, darting from the pills to Steve to the distance, a return to study the eyes that watched him, waiting for his choice to be made.  
  
“Please, Buck, take them then we...” Steve’s words stopped short by the flash of a familiar smirk, eyes shifting from questioning to bright, Bucky lunged to press his mouth to his palm, tongue licking wet across his skin, pulling the pills up from his hand, teeth taking a sharp nip of his thumb. Steve’s quick pull of a breath cut off by Bucky’s mouth, open and taking, covering his own, tongue pushing deep, metal arm holding his head locked to the force of his kiss, the pills flirting across his lips, pulled back by Bucky’s retreat.  
  
Metal hand catching the back of Steve’s head forcing his mouth to press to pale skin exposed as Bucky’s head dropped back, rippled evidence of a swallow. Shared quiet moans as Steve’s tongue dragged wet up the slope of his neck, mouth pulling blood to sit beneath his skin, evident marks randomly left not covered by hair or collar, open for anyone to see as long as his body would allow. Giving himself up for Steve’s taking, hips moving rhythmic telling of his need.  
  
_“You are a very naughty Soldier. Mother would be supremely disappointed.”_  
  
Bucky’s head jerked down, a tremor of tension, his closing off unclear, fighting to keep his focus on the tickle of a beard raking along his throat.  
  
Steve’s mouth followed the slope, tongue brushing his ear, his hand moving to cup his neck, holding him steady as mouths teased close. Steve wanted the kiss, breaths mingling warm, tongue tasting skin still even as the moment hung expectant. The tremor hinting of Bucky’s distraction.  
  
“God, Buck,” Steve pulling back from Bucky’s chasing mouth, making him wait, reveling in the want of half-lidded eyes and the stroke of insistent fingers wrapping around his cock, “What you do to me.” Thumb pressed to a pulse, tracing along his jaw, steady pressure holding him at bay, a finger wandering to caress a full lip, mouth opening, inviting exploration, an ask he couldn’t resist he slid his finger inside to slow pull wetness down his tongue. “I need you,” whispered with heads pressed close, heat pushing sweat across their bodies, Bucky’s giving over of himself inviting, licking Steve’s fingers, their mouths fell together.  
  
Steve returned the kiss forcing them into the bureau, clattering pill bottles rolling across the floor, hips driving up between Bucky’s legs wrapped possessive, body aching for the promise of his dark tightness. Low moans sent heart pounding blood to his temples, filling his cock, driving his need to lay hands on Bucky’s skin warm and familiar, fingers dug under the sweater, nails dragging into muscles firm and willing.  
  
_“Well, there is always puking. Maybe you should go do that before those pills dissolve.”_  
  
Bucky’s legs jerked against Steve’s thighs, metal hand holding insistent pressure to his head, the desperate whine filling his mouth, his tremor shaking through both of them. Steve caught a handful of hair, tugging steady, pulling his head back, struggling to put a space between them. The intrusive tremor sending an anxious rush of cold to slow their kiss. A faint space created between their mouths.  
  
“Wait. Just wait.” Steve breathed close.  
  
Bucky rolled his head, hand wrapping tighter on Steve’s cock, “No waiting.”  
  
Steve whispered against his mouth, “Look at me.”  
  
A jerked tightening of the metal arm, “No more looking.”  
  
Steve’s insistent drag on his hair, “Yes, I need to see you.”  
  
Bucky let his head fall back, giving to the pull on his hair.  
  
Steve studied the face he’d know his whole life, the turn of his mouth, lips darkened red by his own forceful kiss, the constant uncertainty reflected in his eyes seen even now as they shared a bed. Hope in the glimmer of trust reserved for him alone. “Your word, you won’t stop them again.”  
  
Bucky dragged his teeth across his lip, tugging against Steve’s restraining grip, he leaned open mouth reaching, trying to connect again, fighting against the apparent rejection. A frustrated breath when he failed to pull free from the grip on his hair.  
  
Steve wrapped his hand around his hip pushing hard to bounce him against the bureau, "I need this. Your word.” A flash of anxiety sent sweat across his chest, the too clear image of the self-spilled pool of blood and Bucky’s lifeless body. Eyes flickered to his mouth waiting, a hint of movement towards him, pulled back, “I can’t lose you again.”  
  
Bucky clung legs and arms encircling, claiming Steve, reveling in every shred of physical contact, each second of their intense gaze, hunger for his body mixed with fear, wanting to let go of the past, desperate to trust him. Struggling to find his answer.  
  
_“Guidelines are acceptable, promises are not binding. Your word, Soldat, another matter, never to be given.”_  
  
He leaned to counter the restraining grip, accepting the pain that tugged at his scalp, eyes unwavering locked with Steve’s. The internal struggle to defy the Voice hinted across his features, eyes darting right and back, a twitch at the corner of his mouth, worry lines spreading and disappearing morphing to a peaceful softness. The hint of a genuine smile that echoed the look Steve knew from their past, his voice deliberate and clear, “I give you my word. Not a promise, not a guideline. My word. I will take them every day.”  
  
_“You are a disobedient fool that will suffer the consequences, never learning. You and your Captain.”_  
  
Muttered words defiant, “I don’t care. You can’t hurt me.”  
  
“I’m sorry, sorry.” Steve’s hand quick released the fistful of hair, fingers digging deep into the scalp made tender by his hold, slow strokes of comforting regret, he pulled his head close to his chest. “I don’t want to hurt you.”  
  
Confusion slipped across Bucky's face, “Not you. Never you.”  
  
  
Steve closed his eyes, arms wrapped around Bucky, fingers dragging across his scalp, the near confirmation of what he suspected, the Voice competing for his attention. Countering his every word, taking Bucky from him, taunting, confusing, always somehow in the middle. Anger mixed with want, echoes of times past, the flair of heat that made him fight every bully flushed hard across his skin, “Let go. Get down.” He pushed to move the locked on thighs.  
  
Bucky doubled his clinging efforts, “No. Stevie. No letting go now.”  
  
A move to wriggle out of Bucky’s grip, “Yes. Let go. Right now.”  
  
A defiant full-body jerk to hold him in place, “Why? I gave you my word. You don’t believe me?”  
  
Steve dropped his forehead to roll careful against Bucky’s, “I know. Thank you. I believe you. I need you to let go now. Please let go.” A held breath pause, fighting the urge to tear at his clothes, to give in to the rush to take him. “I want to undress you. I need to touch you. Right now.”  
  
Heat pushed through Bucky’s body with Steve’s words, gripping thighs released, sliding down, toes to the floor, taking his weight. Hands releasing their tight grip if not their contact. Eyes brighter with anticipation, locked on Steve’s, no more than a breath apart. He waited.  
  
_“He doesn’t care about you. Not like that. It’s sex, like all the others. Base sex.”_  
  
Steve’s words hesitant, “I know I should tell you how I feel,” he curled his fingers into the hem of Bucky’s sweater. Fingers grazing skin, searching for the waistband. Hips followed the pull on his sweats, heat spreading out from the fingers that caressed his belly, feet stumbling forward, letting Steve have his way, he surrendered to the undressing, a dance between his past and their present.  
  
_“We’ve been here before Soldat, men undressing you, acting kind, not hurting you at first. It all ends the same.”_  
  
The Voice called up memories of unwanted touch, the urge to fight beat down by punishment, the lessons of submitting learned and remembered. Bucky kept eyes locked on Steve, gentle hands reaching for his body, knowing with certainty who he is, trusting in their history.  
  
_“Men only take Soldat. No asking, no concern. Only take from you what they want.”_  
  
Steve’s hand hesitated, twisting in the hem of the sweater, “I’m sorry I rush you, I never ask.”  
  
"Rush me where?"  
  
Steve shook his head, “Permission, I should be asking permission.”  
  
_“The asset doesn’t give permission. No one needs the asset’s permission. Your word is not valued.”_  
  
Bucky pulled in a long shaky breath, his gaze not wavering from Steve’s face, a faint nod to whisper, “You asked once before. I said yes. Always, yes.”  
  
  
“I should ask more often than once.” Steve tugged him closer, forehead pressed to forehead, pulling his body, breath warm on his face. Bucky gave in to the pull, hands falling to his sides, eyes intent following the look of want on Steve’s face. Trusted fingers spread wide and firm beneath the borrowed sweater hanging too large on his frame. Heat spreading across his taut abdomen, deliberate pressure, full-palmed pushing upward, thumbs caught on the knit hem, exposing his chest. Breaths deepening watching Steve’s eyes take in his body, following his fingertips soft exploring nipples, circling and teasing to capture the flesh, a gentler caress of skin along the scars, accepting touch that accounted for the forever pain. Intent gaze, firm gentleness telling him this touch is real, not hinted or dreamed or haunted. Real and wanted, freely given and welcomed.  
  
_“No handlers now, you can fight this one. You have my permission to stop him. He’ll never expect it.”_  
  
Bucky shook his head, slow side to side, hands came to rest on Steve’s, a thumb pressed to each pulse, a pause to affirm their connection, gaze checking gaze, he raised his arms allowing Steve to pull the clothing from his body. Head dropping back, eyes closing, a twitch of the muscle that sits beneath his hip when hands tugged at his sweats, a pulled in hiss of air as the waistband caught purposeful on his cock, a teasing drag along his flesh, his reach to lead Steve’s hand gently pushed aside.  
  
_“No better no worse, all the same. Nameless, faceless men taking what they want, using you. Never giving you pleasure. Never asking what you want.”_  
  
“There, right there,” Bucky’s whispered instructions followed by Steve’s mouth pressing firm to the point of his hip pulling a moan, sending a spasm to his groin, hands tugging one foot then the other from his sweats, wet kisses scattered to inner thighs, teeth leaving marks on skin tender with the cherished bruises.  
  
Steve’s soft murmur of “You like that don’t you?” Flesh twitching as the rough beard dragged across the evidence of his lingering, tongue dragging comfort to claimed patches, “You want me to do this right?”  
  
Bucky’s blissful smile and nod, hands catching Steve’s hair directing his willing mouth, releasing the confusion brought on by the Voice. Knees losing tension when Steve’s tongue teased sensitive skin, licking the length of his cock, the pulled moan answer enough. Bucky let his head drop, eyes open, pupils wide watching as Steve took him in, slow and careful, hands sliding to his ass, keeping him close.

  
Staggered deep breaths, hand tugging on his hair directing his attention, Steve knelt at his feet, head tilting up, mouth sliding along his length, his hand slow stroking up Bucky’s thigh, thumb circling the base of his cock, a pause in movement, eyes watching one another.

  
Steve pulled a teasing distance away, “Look at you,” hand stroking the dip and rise of his muscled body, wandering across the measured ripple of his abdomen, a teasing pull of his nipples, finding his way to fill his palm with his ass, pulling him close. “I don’t tell you how you look, how you feel under my hands, under my weight. How much I want you.”  
  
_“He looks so much like the First Handler, Soldat. Don’t you think?”_  
  
Bucky’s smile an echo from the distant past, “No. Steve. Look at you.” A slow stroke of fingers through hair, thumb dragging along his cheek, cupping his face, etching his features deep into his memory, storing him away tight-locked, to be protected forever. Eyes caught watching one another, heartbeats passing, no words, no movements only gaze connected.  
  
The moment broken by Bucky’s pull at Steve’s T-shirt, desperate tugging to free him of his clothes, pulling him to his feet, tearing at his jeans, frustrated whine when his shoes wouldn’t come off fast enough. He hard tugged at the pants, tossing them aside, stepping close, a skipped beat before they were full body skin to skin, consuming mouths pressed tight. Hands finding secret points to touch shared memories of intimate moments discovering one another.  
  
Steve’s hand caught Bucky’s neck, raking up to tangle in his hair, cautious pressure to pull him towards the bed, mouths still connecting. Bucky moved to crawl on hands and knees, giving himself to Steve.  
  
“No, no, this way, come here.” Steve sat cross-legged, back to the headboard, hands never leaving Bucky’s body, tugging to straddle his lap, hands wrapped around his thighs, pulling him into position, “This, I want this, I want to see you.”  
  
Bucky offered a faint smirk as his hand cupped Steve’s face, “Always watching me, Rogers. You’re always watching me,” forehead close to forehead, perplexed by the unconditional acceptance evident in his eyes. He raised up on his knees, breaths panting, teeth digging into his cheek, eyes forced closed as Steve’s fingers found their way inside of him, exploring intimate tissue, preparing his body to take him in.  
  
Steve offered an absent nod and half smile, distracted by Bucky’s slow matching push against his fingers, “Damn right. Somebody’s gotta keep an eye on you, and I am the man to watch you and, I am the one to do this to you.” Steve brought home his point with an insistent drive and pressured raking into his body, tongue licking at the beads of sweat forming on his chest, sliding slow circles of wetness around each nipple. An aching need filling his gut, overtaking his thoughts, the taste of his skin needed, the way his body moved to fit to his, accepting his fingers, hand braced to the back of his head bringing his nipples to meet his mouth, asking without words for his touch, to feel his lips pressed to his flesh.  
  
His eyes closed exploration interrupted by Bucky’s begging whisper, “Do it. I need you inside of me, please.” Two hands, metal and flesh embracing his cock, bringing their bodies together. A new wash of sweat shimmering across hips to chase down their thighs with the slow descent and careful filling, mouths pressed in a languid kiss, stillness as their bodies adjusted.  
  
Steve’s hands wrapped tight around Bucky’s hips, controlling his motion, lifting and descending, fast then slow, bodies moving in counterpoint, eyes following Bucky’s expressions, every whispered word, furrow in his brow, turn of his head to watch nothing in the distance and every tremor that rippled across his chest.  
  
Steve caught his face, pulling his gaze to himself, hips moving a rhythmic reminder of their connection, he drew a thumb hard across Bucky’s lips bruised from his own mouth, “Watch me, only me. Only my words. It’s just the two of us.”  
  
Confusion flashed across Bucky’s face, eyes struggling to stay on Steve, body jerking with every push of hips, pulling groaned breaths with each pass across the spot made tender by Steve’s hand and cock.  
  
Steve braced on Bucky’s thighs, driving his legs wider, his hard push up forceful angled and insistent, taking the tender tissue, responsive to his every twitch and drive, a rasped question that already had an answer, “Can you feel me? Feel what I’m doing to you? Taking you?”  
  
  
Bucky’s whimpered sound his only answer as his hand reached to satisfy his own cock, denied by Steve’s insistent “I’ll take care of you.” He braced his hands on the head of the bed, raised up on his knees, dropping down, repeated filling, bodies moving coordinated well known to one another. Head falling back, letting Steve take him, eyes closed his mind following the ache of hands that pulled at his flesh, fingers deep pressed to thighs, twitching muscles, burning pain shooting across the small of his back with every deep excursion.  
  
“God, I’m close,” Steve’s low groan brought his hand to Bucky’s mouth, fingers reaching deep to pull wetness, then falling to Bucky’s cock, swollen and expectant, hard strokes pulling, a thumb raking across the tender head. Bucky's hair hanging wet around their faces leaving drops of sweat to run cold down Steve's chest.

  
Mouths brought together in a forceful kiss, tongues pushing deep, pulled away when they came, heads staying close, panting breaths hot on the other’s skin, sweat stung eyes, aching loud moans falling into laughter and Bucky’s “Fuck me,” muffled by Steve’s arms, his face buried against his chest.  
  
Steve's added, “I think I just did,” brought laughter but his whispered, “I love you,” fell unheard against his hair.


	11. The Price of Jealousy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Dear Readers! Thank you so very much for following, visiting and commenting. Your kindness is greatly appreciated. ♥

“Are you asleep?” Steve’s murmured question stirred wisps of Bucky’s hair, head tucked under his chin, body sprawled heavy and engulfing against his own. Answered by the deep rise and fall of his chest, pressing rhythmic weight, breaths long and full hinting of sleep not quite upon him yet.  
  
Steve focused on this moment of comfort, being held tight in his arms, grounding them, a flash to times past when a hand stayed to linger, draped across his shoulders, a look with deeper meaning held his gaze, words not spoken but the message clear. A fleeting thought of regret that he hadn’t voiced his feelings from their beginnings, didn’t step into that haunting embrace, hadn’t taken or given what both desired in the past; grateful for the now.  
  
“Can’t get enough of you,” his breathed confession into his gathering of a cascade of long hair, pulled to caress his cheek, needing the softness, his scent, the damp evidence of shared bodies filling his senses. A twitching reminder in his gut when Bucky’s hips rolled slow and teasing pressure, his cock dragging against his belly. A hand leading his own to caress skin, hip to ass, helping fingers explore flesh still hot and full from his taking, pressing inward, satisfying their need for Steve to enter his body. Faint sighed breaths as Bucky moved rhythmic to meet his fingers, widening knees, giving him access.  
  
“So not asleep,” Steve’s mouth pressed to hair, a cautious move to stretch his legs, held too long in one position, Bucky moaned a protest when fingers slipped from their excursions, he pushed his hand back into place. “Right, sorry, at your command,” Steve’s laugh stirred hair across his face. A tender move to pull the long strands aside, he studied dark lashes lying wet on his skin, a thumb dragged to smooth the lines of tiredness, stealing a caress of his mouth. A toying lips-parted attempt to capture his finger, he pressed his thumb to soothe a cheek left red from the burn of his beard. A soft smile towards Bucky’s eyes-closed peacefulness.  
  
Steve’s tongue slid along his own lips, searching for a taste of Bucky’s skin, never having enough, resisting the urge to pull his mouth to his own, dragging him from the edge of rest. His hand wandering across muscle firm to soft, smooth into rough, lightly gliding down an arm that held him close, a thigh that tightened his pressured grip on his body; hips rolling a slow and insistent reminder, meeting his gentle exploration.  
  
Steve ventured quiet words, “You know I’m jealous, don’t you?”  
  
Metal plates shifted tighter across his shoulders, fingers digging into flesh, the subtle hiss tickling his hearing.  
  
His gaze fell to dark marks scattered across Bucky’s pale skin, pulled by his mouth, needing to be touched before they faded, careful fingers traced the open evidence of his claiming. Flushing heat spread when the touch stirred him to lift his head, inviting Steve’s exploration.  
  
Bucky pulled himself upward, head tilting, pulse exposed, bringing his throat to Steve’s mouth.  
  
_“Unacceptable Soldat. Only Hydra can mark you. Only Mother. Only the First Handler.”_  
  
A shivered intense request, “More, I want more of you, not them,” whispered against Steve’s temple. “They fade too fast, do it harder, I want them to stay forever,” a hand rough pulled at the back of Steve’s head, forcing his mouth to his chest.  
  
_“Fool. All the marks fade, you know this. All except the deepest. The ones he’ll never see. Marking you as theirs.”_  
  
Steve’s fingers slow dragged down Bucky’s offered neck, skin rough with faint stubble slipping beneath his touch, mouth brushing unmarked flesh, lingering on his pulse, a pause when he pressed light to his bruising. Fading red streaks evidence of Stark’s gauntlet, interspersed with Steve’s pulled claiming, warm and raised, the marks more similar than he could bear. The temptation to add to their darkness pushed aside, “No more. Let them fade. We have time.”  
  
_“Good. You don’t need those marks where you’re going. Hard to explain.”_  
  
An irritated sigh, a mumbled, “I don’t care.” Bucky settled back into Steve’s lap, foreheads pressed together, he tightened his knees, a message of owning him, slow rising and falling, a rhythmic welcome of his exploration. A metal thumb pressed light to a pulse, the tense bounding evident to the sensors, Bucky pulled in a breath, a hint of wonder showing in his eyes, “I can feel your heart” whispered close to Steve’s mouth. His hand dropping to caress skin, fingers spread wide sliding down to find tender flesh.  
  
Bucky dropped his head to nuzzle into Steve’s neck, tasting his skin, the salt of their mingled sweat, his mouth pulling hard, teeth embedded in flesh, he drew a soft moan urging him on. Bucky moved his body slow and rhythmic, meeting Steve’s taking, matching his breaths, the feel of skin pressed to skin sending warmth across his gut. A hand tangled in his hair, pulling to break his hold, he left his mark dark and tender, his tongue slipping along a throat, teasing wetness to Steve’s ear, he whispered, “There, now everyone will know you’re mine.”  
  
A flash of warmth raced across Steve’s skin, a tightening embrace, fingers searching tender flesh, mouths teasing contact, blood settling in his cock pressed against Bucky’s; their eyes caught watching one another. An open-mouthed kiss deep exploring, Steve needed to have him under him, laid out, legs raised, pushing up to fill him, face-to-face, his brace to roll them over, caught short by Bucky’s sudden grip on the headboard. Tension ripped through their bodies, a shared grab of their attention, all movement stopped, Bucky’s head jerked up, his gaze darting towards the window past the bed.  
  
“What is it?” Steve’s eyes intent on Bucky’s face, startled to alertness, his worst-case scenario playing out across his features. He watched and felt the shifted weight, eyes scanning the landscape beyond the window, both tense and expectant, listening. Bucky’s mind telling him to run, hands moving to hold tight to his hips, keeping him from bolting, Steve’s voice, reassuring “Wait, just wait,” giving him a reason to stay a few seconds longer.  
  
A far-off rumble of a vehicle approaching, too distant to ping the surveillance, but close enough for their hearing. Low muttered bouncing off bare trees and the hillside, wafting in the window open to the early Spring air.  
  
_“Any day now Soldat. Your indiscretion in that sweat-laden city should bring all those black SUVs to your door. CIA, Interpol, FBI, the New Hydra. Drug dealers, you know how they hold a grudge, you stole their statue. Your legacy; a historic coalition of international agencies just to kill your sorry ass.”_  
  
Bucky held himself raised up on his knees, a head tilt to pull in the echoes, instant response to the faintest of sounds. The head shake tell of the Voice’s commentary clear to Steve. The throaty rumble of their pickup staggering in and out, set off by a high-pitched screech as it droned closer and louder. A familiar looming noise.  
  
Steve’s calming words, a hand that caressed his cheek, “It’s okay, that’s the truck. Sam must be bringing it back.” Hands holding him still, not releasing a tight grip until his body relaxed, tension slipping enough to drop back into Steve’s lap.  
  
A deflecting observation, forehead dropping to forehead, “Listen to that. He’s grinding the gears and he bitches that I abuse the truck.” Searching for the connection lost, an insistent attempt to move Steve’s fingers back to their intimate task, a quiet request, “Don’t stop touching me.”  
  
_“Only a matter of time. They’ll come for you. Go home Soldat. The only safe place.”_  
  
A slow move of his head, side to side, his answer near inaudible, “I’m home already.”  
  
“Yes, we are,” Steve agreed as he cupped Bucky’s face, forcing eye contact, “You and I are home.” Murmured words, answers to unheard questions, tremors, and head shakes, distant stares and darted looks to empty corners driving his resolve. “Did you hear me?” A thumb caressed Bucky’s jaw, Steve said again, “I’m jealous.”  
  
_“Choose your words well. He wants your secrets.”_  
  
The moment hung between them, Bucky’s response hesitant, confusion crossing his face, he stuttered, “Jealous? Of what? My sparkling banter?”  
  
Steve shook his head, “No. 'Fuck you' is not banter.”  
  
“I will forever debate that,” Bucky’s hand dropping to stroke Steve’s chest, a finger circling his nipple, “What the hell are you talking about?”  
  
_“Distraction, perfect.”_  
  
Another head shaken denial, a muttered, “I want to touch him.” Bucky spread knees wider, forcing his ass deeper into Steve’s lap, “Jealous of Wilson? I hate him. If you want me to hate you, you’re gonna be disappointed.”  
  
A tender caress of Bucky’s cheek, sadness creeping into Steve’s tone, “No. Not Sam.”  
  
A flush of confusion crossed his face, then concern followed by a flatness that gave away his efforts to hide his thoughts, “Romanova.” Bucky’s gaze shifted, side to side, away from Steve. Heart beating faster, a thrill beneath the fingers brushing his throat.  
  
Steve pulled Bucky’s gaze back to him, “No. It wasn’t Romanova. Until right now. What the hell was that?”  
_  
“You’re an idiot. There is no hope for you.”_  
  
Bucky squirmed to free his face, “What?”  
  
Steve held firm, “That look, darting all over the room. Your heartbeat fluttered. What’s the story between you two?”  
  
A firm denying head shake despite Steve’s grip, “No story. I shot her. Twice. She has a grudge.”  
  
Steve’s flat statement, “You knew what size bikini she wears.”  
  
“What? Are you serious?” Bucky pulled Steve’s hands from his face, “I guessed. It’s a skill.”  
  
A skeptical counter, “Bikini sizing?”  
  
Bucky pulled his hand through his hair, “Body disposal if you must know.”  
  
Steve caught him by the back of the neck, “Nope. James Buchanan Barnes, you are lying to me.” He shook him, holding their eye contact.  
  
“Shit. You’re ruining good sex with all this talking.” A hard squeeze of the nipple he fondled, “Especially about Romanova.”  
  
Steve grabbed Bucky’s wrists, “Then tell me what happened.”  
  
“God, Steve it’s ancient history. Nothing happened. Just another glorious day as the Winter Soldier. Shit went down, people died.”  
  
_“No wonder Hydra wiped your mind. You suck at keeping secrets.”_  
  
Bucky blurted, “I do not suck at keeping secrets. I have plenty of them.” An intent awkward stare after the words came out.  
  
Steve studied his face, “I didn’t say you sucked at keeping secrets. And I know you have too many of them. I want to know what they are.” His move to sit forward pushed into Bucky’s space, chest to chest, he wrapped his arms around his body, a hand pressed up between shoulders, one draped across his ass so tight and close Bucky’s breath caught up short.  
  
A shudder at Steve’s words spoken next to his ear, “I want you.” Cheek brushing cheek, intensity evident, Bucky’s body softened, the heat of Steve’s skin melting all of his tension.  
  
Steve breathed words deliberate and heated, “I want to be inside of you.” Lips pressed intermittent between the words, “Inside your thoughts, inside your dreams.” Mouth brushing a cheek, then the other, coming to rest on his lips, pulled back enough to whisper, “I want to fill you.” The words pulling a whimper, “I want to be inside your body. Your heart. Your memories. All of it. No secrets, no holding back.”  
_  
“He’s going to ask about The Architect. You know what will happen if you tell.”_  
  
Steve’s tongue slipped past Bucky’s lips, a slow taking of his mouth, licking in to brush against his tongue, pulling back as he tried to press the kiss deeper, pulling another whimper, leading him to chase after the kiss that he moved to deny.  
  
A teasing evasion to stop him from connecting, Bucky gave in to Steve, a sighed capitulation, head dropping onto his shoulder, fingers digging deep into hips.  
  
Steve murmured, “Look at me. I have something to tell you.”  
  
_“You’re a fool for telling him anything. The Architect will kill him, you know this. Kill him slow, chop him up, feed him to you and the dogs. Known fact. Order, Soldat. Order and pain are all that you understand.”_  
  
A tremor moved through Bucky, its evidence showing in the movement of hair hanging past his face, he kept his head pressed to Steve’s shoulder, “I can’t. No more questions. No more talking.”  
  
Steve stroked Bucky’s hair, “I know you’re hearing that Voice. I can see it. You’re talking to it, listening to it.” A shrugged shoulder trying to get Bucky to look at him, “I bet I can tell you what it’s saying.” Fingers dragged across his scalp, he leaned his head into the touch, “It’s telling you to run, that you can’t trust me, to distract me, am I right?”  
  
_“Abort this conversation immediately, tell him about the Widow.”_  
  
Bucky raised his head, near a confession, wanting to trust him, trying to let him in, overtaken by fear, his stare lasted heartbeats before the desperate squirm to free himself. Panic welling up, a panting whined breath, his push and pull to break Steve’s grip ineffective.  
  
The embrace firm, his escape thwarted, their mouths close, breaths flirting against the other’s lips, he blurted his pressured confession, “It doesn’t matter what happened, it’s in the past. I didn’t hurt her. She was there, a safe-house, Russian soldiers. A girl. Red hair. Snuck away from her Madame. Creeping into the basement.” A staggered breath pulled in, wary eyes watching Steve’s impassive expression. Waiting for the judgment, expecting disbelief. A lean to bring his mouth close to his ear, hovering near before whispering, “A cell, in a cell, not naked but close. Questions, ancient history, Red Room stories, are they true? She asked. Did it really happen? Memories wiped away, a hard wipe, don’t talk about it Soldat.”  
  
Steve pulled in a steadying breath, unconscious holding it in, eyes watching the tremor shake through Bucky’s hair, feeling it move from body to body. A hesitant, “It’s okay, I got you.”  
  
Bucky leaned his temple to Steve’s, “Ignored her, had to, no choice. Rules to follow. Not safe to talk to her, not safe for her, for the Soldier.” A pull back, eyes darting towards Steve’s, wary and distant, speech pressured and rasped, “Stupid girl offering food, a blanket, water. Like that mattered.” A near out of control laugh fell away as quick as it started, “She watched me. Staring at me. Like some animal in a cage.” Another hitched laugh, eyes darted away from Steve’s, “Not wrong.”  
  
“Not true. That’s not true.” Steve’s fingers spread wider on Bucky’s body, an attempt to leave a kiss on his cheek, thwarted when Bucky ducked away.  
  
  
A pressured push against Steve’s hips, trying to separate, eyes locking on something distant, “Soldiers came, tore her clothes, long lonely winters there, you know. She fought them, just a kid. I don’t know what happened, something clicked in my head. I stopped them. Not sure why. Just did it.” Tremors tore through him, muscles spasming, ghosted sensations spurred on by the recollections, his head dropped to Steve’s shoulder, “Fuck. Fucking stun prod, over and over, take your punishment. No screaming, shut up. Fucking kill one of us, you’re gonna pay Soldat. Fuck. Fucking stupid girl.” Bucky rasped between panting breaths, “No more talking.” The push of his hands on Steve’s hips intensified, the tremors forcing a flush to his skin, he rocked his head against Steve’s neck.  
  
A ragged pulled in breath, Steve whispered “I’m sorry. So sorry.” His face buried in the fall of his hair, arms wrapping tight, holding him through the tremors that shook them both. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I never should have asked.”  
  
Bucky’s growling struggle, hard pushing to break free, he rolled away in an awkward panting scramble from Steve's lap. A groaned “Fucking cramps,” as he curled on the bed next to him grabbing his calf.  
  
“Damn it, Steve, this is what you do, you ask and beg and plead, ‘Tell me what happened. Tell me what they did to you,’ and then I open that fucking door, give you some stupid bit of my past, and you say ‘I’m sorry I asked.’ Maybe that’s why I don’t tell you shit.” Bucky slapped away the hands that tried to hold onto him, he rolled to lie flat on his back, arm draped over his eyes. “Fucking jealous of what? A Widow? My shoe collection?”  
  
Steve rolled to face him, hand reaching but not connecting, “I wish it were that simple.”  
  
_“Do you really think he can replace me? Where was he when you fell? When they cut off your arm without so much as a stick to bite on? Has he told you how he searched for you in those snowy mountains? Maybe you’re right, bring him with us. The Architect would love to meet him. You and the dogs can dine in opulence on the bones of the Captain. A suitable trade-off for abandoning you.”_  
  
Bucky groaned “Liar. Enough. No more, just no more.” A bolted upright scramble, yanking Steve onto his belly, a wrestling struggle to climb on his back, shove arms above his head, full weight pressure to hold him down. Steve’s body willing in Bucky’s hands, allowing full access, not fighting his frantic moves and angry handling, giving in to whatever he wanted.  
  
“This. This is simple.” Bucky’s breath hot against Steve’s ear, tongue licking the delicate flesh, caught between his teeth. Hips pressing insistent up into his ass, a fight to feel something other than fear, craving this body under his, skin-to-skin matching chest to back, thigh against thigh, his push more urgent with every groaned breath that his body forced from Steve. His mouth taking flesh, hard bite and sucking, leaving his dark evidence along the slope of his neck, he whispered, “Us together like this, simple.”  
  
Sweat broke across Steve’s back, aching heat pushing up from his gut, wanting this moment. The feel of Bucky’s weight laid along his body, the promise of what he would do, what they both wanted. Hips pulled to meet Bucky’s rhythmic pressure, no thoughts given to their argument, body responding without thinking, muscles slack accepting the warmth of his cock growing. His voice distant and disconnected, logic fighting his need, a desperate ask, “Is the Voice telling you to do this, Buck? Is this you or that damn Voice?”  
  
The out of context question stopping Bucky’s taking. Staggered breaths, weight still and heavy on Steve’s back, a final stutter, “What? The Voice? No, not that. Me. I want this.”  
  
Steve reached to wrap his fingers in Bucky’s, pulling his arm, dragging him to roll off his back, a scrambling move to pull him in, arms around his shoulders, face pressing to his chest, “Okay, it’s you, I believe you. Good. Not right now though, not now.”  
  
  
The silent pause between them filled with apprehension, incomplete answers, questions not asked, the tension in the room as palpable as the tightness in their bodies. Steve resolved to finish what he started, “I want the Voice to go away. I’m tired of sharing you. Tired of what it does to you. It has to go away.”  
  
_“This will never be, Soldat. You cannot survive without me. He will never make you complete. Redirect him.”_  
  
Bucky shook his head, hair rubbing against Steve’s chin, “No Voice, it’s not like that. Just saying stupid stuff. I’m a loser. Doesn’t tell me to hurt you or anyone. I’m safe.”  
  
Steve remained insistent, “Yes, Voice. It’s talking to you right now. Telling you what to say, what to do.”  
  
A push to rise up onto his knees, breaking their contact, Bucky’s voice cracked, “What the fuck. You don’t know that.” He rolled to put space between them, hands wrapping around his knees, “How do you know that?”  
  
Steve moved to crouch near, his reaching hand pushed aside, “I can see it in your eyes, the way you stop talking to me. Buck, you talk to it, out loud. Answering. You’re talking to it while we’re having sex.”  
  
“No. No Voice.” Bucky wouldn’t look at him, a head shake denying.  
  
Steve countered, “Yes, always, worse now without the medications but yes always. I’m afraid for you, for us. Talk to me.”  
  
A deep breath pause, Bucky’s eyes narrowed towards Steve, an evident struggle of trust, debating the cost he believed he’d pay, “I know it’s not real.”  
  
“But, you’re listening. I can tell it scares you. What is it saying that scares you?”  
_  
“This is a dangerous game you’re playing Soldat. You need me to survive. He left you to be tortured. Abandoned you to Hydra. You don’t need him.”_  
  
Bucky’s eyes darted to the corner, a head roll at his own indiscretion, he allowed Steve’s hand to pull his gaze back to meet his own.  
  
“Tell me what it’s saying.” Steve moved to kneel within a hair’s breadth of Bucky’s knees, “I swear I won’t regret it or say I’m sorry I asked or act like an idiot. I give you my word.”  
  
The moments passed long and tense, no answer, not a nod or a sigh, watching one another, Steve imagined deep breaths, ticking the seconds to minutes in his head, quieting the itch to ask again, to grab arms, shaking out the answers. His self-discipline near gone, a faint pulled in breath to speak cut off.  
  
Bucky’s eyes direct, voice unfaltering, “You’ll die if you go. It’s telling me you’ll die. I should leave you behind.”  
  
A firm reassurance, “Not gonna die.”  
_  
“You’re a disobedient fool.”_  
  
A cold countering, “Leave you behind. The man I’m after will torture you. Cut you up into bits and feed you to the dogs.” His gaze intense, studying Steve’s response, expecting disbelief, “They won’t kill me. Never. They’ll hurt me. Only wipe my memory. I can do that. Can survive that.”  
  
Steve remained firm, “He may try to kill me, he won’t succeed. I need to keep them from hurting you.”  
  
A faint twitch to his head, Bucky leaned to bring his mouth close to Steve’s ear, “You don’t know him. He will cut you up, feed you to the dogs --- and me. He’d find that funny. I’d never know which meal is you. Always guessing. Hungry, but afraid to eat.”  
  
Steve couldn’t hold back, “Jesus Buck,” hands dropping to shoulders, pulling him tight.  
  
Bucky pushed away, an awkward roll to stumble out of bed, frantic searching for his jeans, pulled on quick, hands shaking, feet shoved bare into his boots.  
  
Steve followed him, “What are you doing?”  
  
An answer thrown over his shoulder, “You need play by play? I’m getting dressed.”  
  
“Where are you going?” Steve pulled on his pants, “You were supposed to sleep. You’re exhausted.”  
  
A curt response as he rummaged in the drawers, “And you’re not.”  
  
Steve added, “No I’m fine.”  
  
Bucky pulled a T-shirt over his head, “Right. Neither of us has slept in days. You're fine, I’m not.”  
  
“Don’t do this.” Steve’s hand on his arm swatted away.  
  
A sighed, “Do what?”  
  
Steve stepped to face him, “Walk away. You just told me what the Voice said, now we need to figure out how to ignore it. We’re not done here.”  
  
  
A knock on the door, Bucky flinched more than Steve, Natasha’s quiet interruption, “Sorry, Rogers, we need to talk.”  
  
Steve ran his hand through his hair, their eyes still locked, “Right, be there in a minute, Tasha.”  
  
  
Bucky turned away, gaze drawn to his image in the mirror, words measured and terse, “You’re jealous of a Voice in my head. Do you know how stupid that is?”  
  
“Not stupid if it gets between us,” Steve stood at his shoulder, gaze connecting in the mirror. An ache twisting in his chest as he watched Bucky’s face, anger mixed with pain, trust slipping away.  
  
Sadness chased confusion across Bucky’s features, “It’s me, Steve. It’s my voice. My head.”  
  
Body heat prickled skin, as Steve stepped closer, “No it’s not. It’s hurting you. It’s coming between us.”  
  
A whispered plea, “It’s part of me.”  
  
Steve’s hand brushed light against Bucky’s back, guarded attempt to connect, desperate to turn back the time even by an hour, evident tension warning him away, “I understand, but it’s taking you away from me. I can’t lose you. Not to Stark, not to the Raft, not even to your own mind.”  
  
“I ---it --- saved me,” Bucky spoke to Steve’s reflection in the mirror.  
  
Steve brushed his face to Bucky’s hair, eyes half closed, pulling in his scent, irrational fears telling him to take this moment before time passed him by, “I’m sorry, Buck. I know you needed it maybe through everything. But not anymore. I’m here now. It’s hurting you.”  
  
Bucky shrugged, sadness filling his voice, washing across his features, he watched their mirrored selves, “What do you want me to do? Cut it out of my brain? I said I’d take the medications, but that doesn’t make it go away completely. So what do you want? A mind wipe? Maybe you’d like me to do that again. That’s what they did. Wipe it away. You and Brooklyn and me, and the Voice. All gone in an instant. Well longer than an instant but who’s counting after the first scream?”

  
  
The sound of the front door slamming, Sam’s call of “Cap, Nat’s got a lot to say, we really need to talk,” shook both of them from the moment.

  
  
Bucky sighed, his tone cutting and cold, “Don’t keep the Widow waiting.” He stepped away from Steve to pick up the pill bottles from the floor.  
  
“I’m sorry. We’re not done, just give me a few minutes, come downstairs with me.” Steve pulled on a sweatshirt.  
  
Bucky waved an assent, “Yup, right behind you.”  
  
Steve paused hand on the doorknob, “I need something, I need you to give me your word.”  
  
“I already told you, Mom,” Bucky’s shake of a bottle clattered the pills inside, “I’ll take the meds, stop beating me over the head with it.”  
  
A step towards Bucky, Steve's square-shouldered, clear expectation, “No. not that. I need you to give me your word you won’t go without me.”  
  
Bucky pulled a drawer open, a pointed search, stirring the contents, “These socks never match, are you stealing my socks, Rogers?”  
  
Steve answered, “I am not stealing your socks. Your word, Buck.”  
  
He tossed several on the floor, “Birdman then. Such an asshole. What does he want with my socks?”  
  
“You don’t wear socks. Remember?" Steve remained focused, "Your word.”  
  
A heavy sigh, Bucky turned to face him, “Look, I promise…”  
  
Steve strode forward, stopping chest pressing to a chest, “No. Your word. No bullshit. You won’t do this alone. Your word. Stronger than a promise more than a guideline.”  
  
A forceful shove drove Steve back against the wall, Bucky’s anger flaring, hands pressing tight to biceps, words spoken close, “You don’t get it. They’ll kill you. Very dead and made into mincemeat. You may think that’s fine, but I don’t.” A stolen caress of his cheek, gaze connecting, drawn down to his mouth, fingers slipping to pull at his lips, a teasing touch of his tongue, a painful breath, “I need you --- Alive.”  
  
Steve offered no struggle, a returned intense watching, “Not gonna kill me.”  
  
Frustration chased across Bucky’s face, “Fine. When they kill you, I will have to kill them. But I won’t stop there. I’ll kill everyone around them, the guards, the staff.” A trembling pat of Steve’s chest, voice shaking, “Then I’ll kill their families, mother, father, children. Fuck, I’ll even kill the god damned dog.” Tremors shook across his body, “Do you get that?” A hard stroke of Steve’s hair, pushing his head to the wall, “Can you get that into your lily-white view of the world. If you die because of me, I will take my vengeance out on everyone who ever came in contact with them.” Eyes intense, wide and disconnected, “Until they kill me.” Words pressing to Steve’s cheek, clenched jaw, tension radiating heat to Steve’s body, “I am a hard kill, Rogers. It will be a bloody and long crusade. I am a very hard kill.”  
  
Steve grabbed Bucky’s waist, the roll to flip their positions pinning his hips, a hand caught his throat, fingers sliding down his skin, breath close, weight heavy, “You’re done? My turn. I am not letting you leave this room without giving your word.”  
  
Bucky pulled in a panted breath, fighting against the pull of Steve’s body pressed to his own, a groan when his knee pushed between his legs, forcing them open, “You want to do this. You really want to throw down with me over this. Here and now.” Bucky’s hand wrapped around Steve’s wrist.  
  
Steve muttered, “I will if I have to, but I’m really hoping you don’t have it in you to hit me.”  
  
Bucky’s smirk more sarcastic than amused, “You love this move don’t you Rogers. Get real close, your hand on my throat, dragging your fingers on my skin. You like that knee right there too, pressed up against my cock. Push harder." He grabbed Steve’s knee and tugged to drive it up into his balls, “There that’s better, really force yourself on me.” He rasped into Steve’s cheek, “Tough little shit from Brooklyn, big enough to really throw your weight around now. Still kicking them in the balls.”  
  
Steve shot back, “No, not like that. Maybe I’m hoping you’ll want to make love and not fight.” His words defensive but Bucky saw the tell of his uncertainty, eyes darting right and back. He knew the look too well.  
  
Bucky’s head dropped back against the wall, “No. You already know what you do to me. How you make me feel. How I'll do anything for you, for your touch. You’re using this to get what you want. That’s called manipulation Rogers. Not winning, not persuasion, not --- anything else."  
  
Steve’s grip loosened, a clearing step back, hands falling from Bucky’s body, gaze taking in the anger on Bucky’s face, his eyes full of pain, different than anything he’d seen since being reunited. Unclear of what he was seeing. Regret eating away at his gut.  
  
Bucky shook his head, back still pressed to the wall, “Fuck. Fine. I give you my word.”  
  
Steve stuttered, “What? That you’ll do what?”  
  
A flat affect, clear statement, eyes direct, empty and guarded, “I give you my word that I won’t go alone. Happy now.”  
  
Steve stood watching him, “Yes. I am.” Guilt roared up, anxiety wrenching down in his chest, his breath catching short, thoughts raced at what more to say, how to undo the past hours, an inspiration to say something more interrupted.

 

“Cap, we really need to talk.” Sam’s call from the bottom of the stairs loud enough not to ignore.

  
  
Steve pulled his eyes from Bucky’s accusing stare, hand on the doorknob he spoke without turning around, “For the record, I’m sorry. I am doing what needs to be done to keep you safe. I hope you can see that. Please come downstairs.”  
  
“Yup. Right behind you.” The terse faux cheeriness said volumes as Steve left the room.  
  
Bucky’s breathing staggered, gasping pulls to find air, a desperate fight to hold onto a sob, a wildly out of place hiccup sent an uncontrolled laugh through his body, he fell on his hands and knees. “Oh god, oh god. Okay, pull it together.” Panted self-talk as he crawled to the bed, fisting hands into the sheets, head down attempt to thwart the spinning room, fighting for emotional control. A whispered reassurance, “Okay, we can do this, I’m good.” A reach for Steve’s sweater, squatting on his haunches, face buried in his scent, breathing deep and hungry pulling him in, a thought to leave it behind aborted, he tugged it over his head.  
  
Fingers pushing aside streaming wetness on his cheeks, clearing his eyes a stumbled move to the closet, rummaging through the bottom he pulled the backpack from the corner. The newly empty space shedding light on silver metal, a hesitant pause, his hand pulled it free. Fingers ran careful along the hard rounded edge, eyes taking in the silver outer ring, the centered red star, the weight not familiar enough. Chest tight with guilt, the shaking sob returning, a fight to quiet the overwhelming shame, convinced he was undeserving of the gift. Echoes of Steve’s insistence in Boston, handing off the new shield, T’Challa’s creation at Steve’s request, the red star telling the story. The shield was meant for Bucky. A careful pull of the bedspread to cover sex-stained sheets, he laid the shield on their bed.  
  
_“You never deserved that shield.”_  
  
“Couldn’t agree more,” A decisive response, as his hand caressed the metal. A turn to grab the backpack, he stuffed it with three T-shirts, six mismatched socks and dragged his arm across the bureau top to shove the pill bottles inside.  
  
_“You don’t need those, Soldat. You have me. They will only slow you down.”_  
  
A glance up at his reflection in the mirror, hard fought to keep his eyes on his image, a struggle that shame won most often; tear-stained cheeks, thick hair disheveled, far past his shoulders, Steve’s sweater wrapped loose, hanging over fingers, neck off-centered, comforting and familiar. A few seconds of acceptance, morphing to anger, metal fist slamming his mirror face, the self-loathing winning out, “Shut the fuck up.”  
  
Racing thoughts sent fire through his head, a jacket pulled from the closet, a go-bag dragged from under the bed, Steve’s well-meaning words echoing, “I’m doing what needs to be done to keep you safe.” A muttered rebuttal as he crossed to the open window, “So am I, jerk, so am I.”


	12. Regret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much for your support! ♥

_"Steven mule-assed Grant bull-headed Rogers, so effing sure of himself. Knowing what's good for us. Making all the plans."_

_  
"Get rid of the Voice in your head Soldat. Take the stupid pills, buddy. Not gonna kill me, pal. I know what's best, screw you, Soldier, what do you know. You're nothing, no one, you don't get to make the plans, you don't get to weigh in."_

  
_"Your ideas mean nothing. Your word means nothing. You are nothing. You are the asset. He is The Star-Spangled Man With a Plan_."

       The Voice in Bucky's head.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

  
  
Steve’s hand lingered on the bedroom doorknob, sweat adding a sheen to his palm, steadying seconds to quiet the turmoil in his gut. Bucky’s hurt burned into his vision, mouth curving downward, soft lines turned harsh, the tremor they’d come to accept as his norm, magnified by the stress of their fight.  
  
Not wanting to walk away, mind still connected to the spark of anger in gray eyes. Thoughts still reeling with his voiced accusations, “Manipulation Rogers, not persuasion not anything else,” heart twisting in his chest at Bucky’s hesitation, the word Steve wanted to hear left unsaid, his own feelings spoken not loud enough. Steve’s fingers twitching to open the door, to rush back to Bucky, aborted when Sam appeared at the foot of the stairs, “You coming?”  
  
Jaw muscles ticked with the internal debate, follow Sam to the kitchen or push through that door, catching Bucky’s hand forcing him along, never letting go. His intuition telling him to go with the tickle at the back of his brain, keep him tightly bound; logic arguing that Bucky gave his word. More than a promise, not anywhere near a guideline. Steve pushed down his fears, threw his faith behind his singular determination and took Bucky at his word; a reluctant step across the landing, fingers slow withdrawn from the door, he headed to hear what Natasha had to say.  
  
Brown painted stairs, braided carpet treads green flecked with beige, a throwback to times long past, suited to the farmhouse Steve chose to make their home, the ticks and creaks breathed with every step a testament to movement through the house. Bucky’s soft refrain playing in his head as his bare feet chased down the stairs, “Second stair from the top, step to the left, third stair center; skip the fourth, next one step far right, sixth in the middle, then do it again, step over the eighth, both feet on the ninth.” Hand braced light on the banister; ghosting Bucky’s grip, a recall of his admonishment, “You’re so rough, Stevie, touch it light.” His teasing lesson in stealth brought a smile at his double meaning.  
  
Lessons Steve learned studying Bucky, watching him move, silent reconnaissance, a hand testing locks, measured steps to the door, counting obsession more than his past manifesting as anxiety, a quiet drilling down of data. Bucky studying the house, learning its tells and quirks, how it breathed through the seasons, noises that startled at first now comforting, corners not trusted for lack of sight lines and escape routes now embraced for what they were, a safe place through and through. Steve wanted this for him. Safe from the past, the outside world, a place for Bucky to call home, a place for them together.  
  
Dreams dared to come alive here, the echo of Bucky’s laughter, newly formed, aching moans pulled by his own hand, bodies pressed close in the dark, intimate touch shared free of pain and coercion. The house offering a secluded haven from the chaos of running; a peaceful dichotomy to the brutality of Hydra.  
  
A flash of memory as Steve moved past the front door, torn from its hinges when Bucky fell apart, none the worse for his efforts. Eyes grazing the wall, the faint color change, evidence of the aftermath of his body crashing through it, thrown there by Bucky, dutifully repaired by him, a bonding moment with Sam. A glance to the sofa, shadowed remembrance lying there, Bucky’s weight full between his legs, arms wrapped possessive, soft music bringing long forgotten memories.  
  
Moments of their history clicking through his mind, Steve brought a distracted attention to his meeting with Natasha and Sam in the kitchen. The argument a stinging open wound, his hand with a faint tremor, gut rolling up and over replaying his knee forced between Bucky’s legs, defiant anger, words cutting sharp. Burned into his mind’s eye, Bucky’s features covered in the hurt drawn out by his actions.  
  
  
Steve tugged at the collar of his sweatshirt, fingers exploring the warm bruise, throbbing nerves remembering the mouth that pulled the blood under the bite marks, the statement of Bucky’s possession. Skin thick with shared sweat and the aftermath of sex. Despite Sam and Nat’s voiced concerns, looking for his direction, his mind remained tight-wrapped around Bucky, caught up in reluctance to walk away, the palpable fear that he’d be gone when he turned around. Faith placed in Bucky’s word, “I won’t go alone.”  
  
An awkward side glance in response to Natasha’s raised eyebrow as her eyes lingered on his neck, Steve stood feet widespread, arms crossing, he launched into his diversion, “That was a quick trip to New York. What’s wrong?”  
  
The faint rasp to Natasha’s voice as she recounted the last twenty-four hours told a story beyond her words. A sleepless night wrangling Maymay, her tale relaying a confusion of facts laced with discovered lies. Twists and turns that rolled forward, Sam’s interjected comments underscoring her accounting until it all fell to the back of Steve’s hearing drowning beneath the echoes of Bucky’s breathing.  
  
Steve's lips full and tender still from their press to his mouth, exploring his skin; his mind’s eye recalling the tense arch of Bucky’s body, an ask when he pulled his mouth away, an echoed whine at his teasing denials.  
  
The memories fresh, a muscle spasmed with the light touch of tongue to hip, a demanding hand pulling his mouth closer, his kiss soothing the twitch, a caught breath marking Bucky’s approval. Body memory bringing a pulse of blood to settle between his legs, his mind seeing Bucky’s face, eyes heavy, expression lost in the sensations of Steve filling him rhythmic and deep. The slip of his tongue along his lips, searching for the taste of Bucky’s skin, his sweat, the warmth of his mouth, pulled him from everything Natasha had to say.  
  
Bare feet shifting in place, an anxious insistence that he go back to the bedroom, to beg forgiveness, heart aching to drop to his knees, arms wrapping around Bucky's hips, head pressed to his belly, trying to undo the hurt he saw in his eyes as he turned to leave the room. Head wandering lost in the regret of their argument, missing Nat and Sam’s insistent banter one word spoken close to his face woke him from his remorse.  
  
“Stark.” Natasha stood in front of him, intense gaze, waiting for his response, “Rogers, are you listening to me? Hey, did you hear me?”  
  
Steve answered, “What about Stark?”  
  
“He swears he didn’t lie about the data. He’s reworking it right now." A slight tilt to Natasha’s head a clue to the uptick of her skepticism, not wholly believing Stark but not dismissing him either.  
  
Sam offered, “Stark wants to reconcile with you.”  
  
Steve countered, “I'm supposed to trust him now? He told me he’d leave us alone. He told Bucky those cuffs were vibranium, he lied just to screw with him. He dragged him from that jet in handcuffs, shoved him to his knees and terrified him into a seizure. I'm supposed to believe he's benevolent now?”  
  
Sam muttered, “There is that.”

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

  
  
_“Damn Birdman. When are you going to man-up and kill that fool.”_  
  
The long practiced art of barely ignoring what the Voice had to say saved Wilson so far. The note he left taped to the steering wheel of the truck, “Barnes. You Are Grounded,” coupled with the missing battery brought Bucky to reconsider his oath to not kill anyone. The urge to slam the hood thwarted at the last second, the efficient whir of his metal fingers closing, a ghosted grip on Wilson’s throat, giving him a moment’s satisfaction.  
  
Tense minutes of internal debate, hurt and anger churning in his gut, tearing at his heart, faltering his steps. The pull of Steve; wanting to tell all his truths, confessions good and bad spilling out, wrapped safe in his arms. Heat slipping away, body haunted by the sensation of Steve filling him, emptiness pushing aside comfort, sending coldness across his skin, into his mind, settling in his heart. One desire coming clear, conviction that Steve would be safer left behind, he turned towards the treeline. A muttered “Birdman,” as he dug through the go-bag to drag out the not-well-hidden tracker and laid it on the hood. A pulled in breath, he turned towards the surveillance camera on the corner of the house, his attempt to speak held back. Memories jumping forward, familiar and different, looking up at a camera, evidence erased once, now meant to be found.  
  
“Sorry, sorry, it’s better this way.” Words spoken direct to the camera, meant for Steve.  
  
A turn towards the treeline.  
  
_“Steal the Harley, Soldat.”_  
  
Hesitant steps across the driveway, no glance towards the garage.  
  
_“Walking to Siberia without socks?”_  
  
Sighed frustration, slow jog beginning.  
  
_“Nice and slow. Sprinting never your strong pace.”_  
  
Thigh muscles contracting, full pounding into a run.  
  
_“Demarcation line coming up.”_  
  
A shift in the landscape, pace slowing, rock ledge just before the trees.  
  
_“This is it, Soldat. End of the line for his protection. Life on the run begins.”_  
  
Outer limits of their surveillance, tested and tried by Bucky, inches from his feet.  
  
_“First step over that line. He’ll know you’re gone.”_  
  
Hard drop to his knees. Breath ragged with doubt.  
  
_“He’ll come after you.”_  
  
Tear through the go-bag. A Glock checked and tucked in his waistband, knife sheathed at his back; burner phone shoved in his jacket pocket; rote prep, ticking off thirty seconds.  
  
_“Just like Hydra, chopper in the air, an army of soldiers looking for you. Stun guns, nets, bollo. Remember that? Took you down like the animal you are.”_  
  
Hair gathered up, the scrunchie never returned to Romanova.  
  
_“Tranquilizers.”_  
  
Old routines not forgotten.  
  
_“Mother.”_  
  
Breath caught. He dropped cross-legged on the ground.  
  
_“Good times, Soldat, real good times.”_  
  
Gaze intent, chest tightening, he stared at their home.  
  
“What the hell were you thinking Rogers? A farmhouse?” His muttered out loud questions meant to be skeptical, laced with his sadness, “I don’t want to do this. I don’t. But you’re so damn stubborn. He’ll kill you and I can’t, can’t let that happen.”  
  
Bucky’s gaze fell with longing at their home, a secret hope to see the back door open, Steve stepping out, his turn to stare right at him up on the ridge. His path clear through the field, a slow, determined stride, pissed off Rogers emanating from every pore. A near smirk when his waking dream had Steve start to run, a smile for how he’d make his escape, weaving, and dodging, a game he knew he couldn’t win, but he’d make him sweat before the take-down. Full smile at the thought of that reunion, only these few minutes separated, laughter for the image of them rolling on the ground, leaves in his hair. Ending with a kiss, the kind that tells of a lifetime lost, finally found.  
  
Bucky let his imaginings fall away. Their argument decisive, no going back, no winning with Steve, only taking things into his own hands.  
  
_“On your own, it’s for the best. You’ve always worked alone.”_  
  
His alternate ending dismissed, he pulled himself to his feet, a lingering aching glance towards their home. One last deep, steadying breath, he bounded across the invisible line that marked their surveillance outer reaches knowing the ping would echo through the house. Chest tight, pulse-pounding, he ran full speed to put distance between himself and Steve, knowing he wouldn’t be far behind.  
  
Knowing this would break his heart.

  
  
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

  
  
“There’s truth in every lie.” Natasha stood close to Steve, watching his face.  
  
He added, “And a lie in every truth,” jaw clenching, eyes dropping to the floor, a hesitant moment coming close to confiding. Wanting to spill his regret, a muttered, “We argued...” cut short by the perimeter alarm.  
  
High-pitched pulsing sound not loud enough to drown their words, sufficient to snap at their attention. Intrusive for Sam and Natasha, deafening for Steve, hearing enhanced, a split second wondering if the CIA had found them; quick thought to getting Bucky close. He turned for the bedroom.  
  
Sam called, “Let me check it, last time it was a deer,” as he headed for the surveillance computers tucked in a room off the kitchen.  
  
Quick steps across the living room, Natasha close behind, Steve’s pace sped up, gut-clenching, heat flushing red wave of realization that the perimeter alarm worked both ways, he breathed one word, “Buck.” Taking the stairs three at a time, words under his breath, “No, not again, don’t do this, please don’t do this.”  
  
Hand on the doorknob, abrupt push to open, the glimmering hope to find Bucky, angry and defiant not mattering to Steve, as long as he stood in their bedroom. Mind rushing forward, arguments can be resolved, anger soothed; leaving alone, betraying his word another matter. His word, solemn promises taken on faith, “Why would he lie?” Racing through his thoughts, holding his breath until the ache burned hot in his lungs.  
  
Steve’s eyes raking across the empty room, his breath let out, “No, not buying this, not again.”  
  
Worry giving way to disappointment, frozen in place, ticking away each clue to what happened, broken mirror, open window, clothing spread across the floor, his gaze settling firm on the red-starred shield lying in the middle of their bed; a message clear without words or a note. Steve’s demands too much, wounds too deep to bear, the only safety found in retreat.  
  
Hiding his remorse, defensive words, “Damn it, what the hell is he thinking,” Steve’s move through the room, quick and efficient, a glance out the window, check under the bed, “Go-bag is gone.” Hand raking through his hair, ragged breath buying time to think.  
  
Natasha watching from the doorway, “Why would he run, Steve? What happened?”  
  
“Long story,” Steve shook his head, “I don’t believe this, he’s here, somewhere. He wouldn’t do this.”  
  
Desperate pushing aside of clothes in the closet, a search for the backpack, once tucked deep in the corner, a secret not shared. Steve found it one day, never telling but checking whenever Bucky retreated. Each time a sighed relief, reassured that Bucky was still there, withdrawn but safe, anxiety quieted, watchful waiting for his reemergence, his desire for solitude accepted. No need to discuss when it ended. Silent reappearance, hesitant body language, understood with a look, head lowered, tenuous steps, a finger slipping in a belt loop, finding safety in Steve’s encircling embrace.  
  
  
His words sounding distant, not his own, “Backpack’s gone, shit,” the rush of heat that pulsed through his head dropping to churn chaos through his gut. Steve’s fist tearing through the drywall pulled a startled twitch from Natasha, his drop to his knees brought her hand to his shoulder.  
  
“He’s only got a few minutes ahead of us, let’s get moving,” her words spoken with surety.  
  
Steve’s hands dug in scattered clothes, breathing ragged, heart pounding into his temples; pulling out one item, dark blue, fraying that told of being worn threadbare, the red, white and blue shield a faded emblem. A quiet cherished garment, Bucky’s constant wearing garnering teasing from Wilson, a sly smile from Steve, the T-shirt not discarded but giving way to Steve’s sweater. Balled up in one hand, pulled close to his chest, hidden from the eyes of others. A heartbeat of clarity, he nodded, voice cracking, “I hurt him, Tasha, I hurt him in so many ways.”  
  
“I find that hard to believe,” She brushed fingers light across his cheek, “He has his reasons, now we go get him.” A hard pull on his arm to urge him to his feet.  
  
Sam spoke from the doorway, “It was him, got it on the video, heading East, same as last time.” He pointed at the bureau, “At least he took the medications.”  
  
Steve ran his hand across the bureau, muted words, “Right, he probably flushed them, we fought about them, fought about that damn Voice in his head. Fuck, I’m an idiot.”  
  
“Gonna get my wings, he can’t be far; hopefully he doesn’t take a shot at me.” Sam hurried down the stairs.  
  
“I’ll get the go-bags ready,” Natasha’s hand tightening on his forearm, an attempt to pull at his attention, his gaze locked on the clothing tight held in his hand, “Whatever you fought about doesn’t matter right now, all that matters is catching up with him.”  
  
“Right behind you.” A faint nod distracted by his thoughts, “Right behind you.”  
  
Natasha allowed a shrug, “Don’t forget he’s a ghost when he wants to be, clock’s ticking,” she followed after Sam.  
  
Eyes closed, blocking out the broken glass, clear bureau top, scattered clothes; the shield abandoned, his legacy for Bucky, a hope for redemption succumbing to his shame. The ping of the alarm gone quiet, no sounds intruding. A few stolen seconds to steady his breaths, willing his heart to slow its pace, gathering scattered thoughts. Fighting down the self-loathing, “I did this, I made you go. I’m the jerk you’ve always thought I was, I’m sorry, so fucking sorry.” A glance back at the window, irrational hope a metal hand would grab the sill, seconds passing in the empty silence, an unwilling turn to leave, Bucky's T-shirt tucked in his back pocket, running to catch up with Natasha.  
  
  
Rapid-fired demands as Steve ducked to check the downstairs bedroom, “This isn’t happening, where’s the phone, call him.” Steps to head for the kitchen, doubled back to bump into Natasha, “Call him, he’s pissed at me, he’ll never answer if I call.” He stood too close, expectant in front of her, intense, a tremor nearly evident. A few seconds staring he moved on as she dialed.  
  
Natasha dialed, again and again, racing to keep up with Steve on his frantic search of the house, “He’s not picking up. You know he won’t.”  
  
Steve’s breaths gasping short and rapid, unspoken worry tearing at his thoughts, knees to the floor in the tactical room, the first place to explore under the table, no evidence of his recent presence, mental ticking off the list of safe places. Racing from comfort to retreat, searching the known and guessed corners that offered a place of safety, doubling back, trying to catch his shadow, convinced he was there, hiding in plain sight.  
  
A stumbled pause as Natasha corralled him to shove the comm earpiece in place as he tossed aside the gym equipment. Steve never spoke his name, no calling or begging, knowing he’d never answer, telling himself it’s all a game, hide and seek, nothing more than a childhood game. Half-hearted anger that he would let it carry on for so long. Bucky watching, hand over his mouth, stifling the laugh, making Steve suffer, rightly so, payback for questioning his sanity. An internal groan at Bucky’s petulance, more than willing to lose the game just to have him back, desperate to hear his laughter even at his own expense.  
  
Aching pain in the truth of what his body and mind told him. Bucky wasn’t there.  
  
Natasha’s terse begging ignored, “We’ve looked here already, he’s gone.”  
  
Bucky’s words “It’s part of me," haunting Steve, forcing him to move. A push past Natasha to race to the old barn, tearing through crates and equipment, lingering in the loft, feeling the hint of their time there just a few hours earlier. Hearing his voice again, “I know where to find him.” Nightmares waking, hinted stories, the plan to go after a man, no names except the whispered reference "The Architect." Staccato memories assailing Steve's awareness, hoping he'd find him tucked in a corner. The only trace of their morning an upturned floorboard that hid the tattered shoe box, the milk crate seat next to the door.   
  
Sam’s report garbled in their ears, “I got nothing out here. No signs, how the hell does he disappear like this?”  
  
Nat’s hand on Steve’s chest meant to catch his attention, “Sam’s in the air. No sign of him. He’s moving fast then.”  
  
Her concern pushed aside, Steve's rasped denial, “No he’s here I know it, he’s still here.”  
  
Their voices muddied under the raging flow of guilt, a flash to his time beneath waters, dulling his hearing, consciousness sinking slow and sure into the darkness of despair. Bucky’s words the only voice coming clear, “It saved me.”  
  
Fists clenching tight then loose, body moving, no logic directing his search, only desperation pushing his feet to run. Natasha working to keep him in her sight. Barn to the yard, aching pulled in breaths. The Harley in the garage, the truck in the driveway, Nat’s car left untouched. A tracker left on the hood of the pickup.  
  
Sam’s muttered complaint, “How the hell did he know about that,” pulled back at Steve’s grunted disapproval.  
  
Natasha’s brief assessment of distance, time and place, objective evidence, falling to the back of his hearing. Only Bucky’s voice front and center, bright and sure, “I give you my word. I will not go alone.”  
  
Bloody dirt caked on the soles of his feet, Natasha’s hands pulling him back to the house, darkness engulfing, cold wrapping his body, the light of day sitting above the treetops, slipping away, yellow to red to black, taking Bucky away with every ticking second.  
  
Faint updraft from Sam’s wings stirring the air around them as his feet hit the ground, his words echoing real and in their ears, “We’re gonna need Fury’s help, heat sensing devices, dogs, choppers...”  
  
Steve grabbed the flight pack straps, hauling him closer, tense words eye-to-eye, “No. No dogs, no choppers. We will find him ourselves.”  
  
“Whoa, Steve, with you here. Just trying to help.” Sam pulled the goggles from his face.  
  
Tense moments facing off, Steve staring at Sam, Natasha waiting it out; broken with Steve’s release, a turn away then back, head shaken at himself, hand on Sam’s chest, “Sorry, not called for.”  
  
“I get it. You know I get it." Sam's words reassuring.  
  
Natasha redirected, “Fury will help us. Let’s get moving.”  
  
  
A longing stare towards the road, Steve’s calculating gaze raked across the tree line, replaying Bucky’s run before, sitting in the woods, watching them come and go. A hope that he sat there again, the heat of their argument telling him otherwise, the echo of the hurt chasing anger across Bucky’s features convincing him that he was nowhere near them by now. A whisper heard only by himself, “I need you.” His mind giving in to the numbness of losing him again, feet frozen to the ground, tense muscles going slack, a murmured, “Come home.”  
  
Natasha’s voice close, “Steve we’ve gotta go.”  
  
Natasha and Sam herded him towards the house, dragging an arm, pushing from behind tripping up steps through the glass and oaken door, slamming hard as they made their way inside.  
  
“Go bags in the tactical room. Fury will meet us.” Natasha’s assessment curt and low.  
  
Her fingers dug into Steve’s sweatshirt leading him down the basement stairs, across the gym, his eye caught by a shadow in the corner, sure of the figure, long hair, silent and staring. A dared hope that Bucky played a terrible joke, payback for the absurdity of being jealous of a Voice in his head. Heartbeats skipping as he studied it closer; nothing more than clothing draped from a hook, taunting his mind. Giving over of his body, letting them push and pull, dragging him forward, no logical thoughts left except the pain of regret.  
  
Feet crossing the threshold, Steve’s hearing sure of a whisper, cherished laughter hinted low, lost for what seemed like forever, its return private, only for him, hidden from all others. Bucky’s murmured words, a soft pulled whine, his close-guarded gift, Steve’s mind straining to find it, sure that he heard it wafting from the top floor, some new hiding place, missed in his desperate search. Convinced Bucky would step out from a closet, eyes shining with the promise of rolling laughter for him alone, an intimate reunion behind closed doors. A joke played to make Steve squirm.  
  
He broke from Natasha’s hands, racing back up the stairs, close followed by her, heading for Bucky’s old bedroom, a skidding stop in the doorway.  
  
Steve’s heart pounding loud behind his eardrums, a murmured groan creeping from his throat. The empty room clear even in the fading light of the day, a wave of nausea creeping from his gut, tight breath catching short and brittle, body memory of his days with asthma, the echo of Bucky’s worried concerns, “Use your inhaler, Stevie, can’t be losing you.”  
  
A staggered step at the ghosted voice, shoulder to the wall, a slide down to fall curled in on himself at the foot of Bucky’s bed. Head in his hands, knees raised cheeks hot with the strain of his desperate search, eyes blinking shut against the sting, a question only he could answer, “What have I done?”  
  
Sam’s expectant assessment coming across in his ear, “Go bags, phones, hard drive, weapons we are good to go Cap. On your word. Good to go.”  
  
Steve didn’t hear Natasha as she dropped to her knees next to him. A hand slipping around his bicep, unnoticed, an odd shaped item deposited in his lap pressed there until his eyes opened and his body stirred.  
  
Her voice soft, “You can blame yourself, you can blame him. Or Hydra, or Stark. Doesn’t matter right now. What we need to do is go after him. Maybe you should share what the hell happened today.”  
  
He let his head drop back to the wall, “My fault, I told him, I actually told him I was jealous of that Voice in his head,” the huffed laugh full of self-derision.  
  
“Rogers, that Voice is all he’s had for years. His only company, it’s part of him.”  
  
Steve rocked his head against the wall, “That’s exactly what he said. Not only did I basically call him crazy...”  
  
She settled her shoulder next to his, “I doubt you said that.”  
  
“In so many words. I did,” a sighed quiet response.  
  
“He ran because you told him the truth about how you felt about that Voice?"  
  
“No. That’s why he’s pissed at me.” A cross-legged adjustment to his sit, the shoe box opened, contents rummaged through until the white folded paper pulled free. “He’s not running away.” His two finger hold of the folded square of soiled paper brought him back to what felt like days ago, only that morning. Bucky’s distracting crawl across the tactical room table, finger pressed to that nondescript note, the meaning coming clearer now, gazes locked on the scribbled memory, “He’s leaving me behind.”


	13. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always I am so appreciative of your following this story. Thank you for every hit, comment, kudos and your love of Stucky! ♥

Cold wind cut sharp into Steve’s face, eyes half shut fighting its bite, scouring glances to his left, irrational hope of seeing a dark figure scrambling through the woods, paralleling the road to the airport. His opinion firm when presented with Fury’s strategy, the pain of his argument with Bucky kept private, the Harley’s guttural scream a surrogate for all that he wanted to express.  
  
Shoulders crouching into the headwind, the hurried conference in the tactical room replaying in his mind. Fury’s presence looming on the computer screens, his perspective narrow, plan decisive, full-on manhunt. Steve revolting at his word choice “Capturing Barnes.” Natasha’s defense of Stark, her willingness to give him a chance laced with a healthy dose of skepticism.  
  
  
All efforts aimed at persuading Steve, hands braced on the table, tension evident, tight jaw, white knuckles, not speaking a word. A survey of the room, Fury’s image in front of him, Sam flanking his right, Natasha close on his left. Opinions swirling pressured talk stumbling one over the other, their words competing for his attention, time ticking louder in his head. Bucky’s stride carrying him farther away with every word and second.  
  
Fury’s tone confident, “We’ll get him back, Rogers. I’ve got a team mobilizing as we speak.”  
  
“Cap, I’m back in the air when you call it,” Sam eager to help.  
  
Natasha adding as she examined the white paper clue to Bucky’s destination, “Three sets of numbers. You said he called his target The Architect?”  
  
A curt assessment by Fury, “The lead on the weapons in Cartagena was a set-up, he pissed off a lot of powerful people when he went after Hydra on that Boston mission.”  
  
Sam adding, “Flush him out, get him on the radar, he’s up for grabs, Hydra, CIA, Interpol.”  
  
Steve’s anger rising with Fury’s grousing, “My choppers are off the ground, he won’t be stealing from me again. He’ll go for your quinjet, we’ll catch him there.”  
  
"What the hell is he thinking? “Sam argued, “That man from his past has to be dead by now.”  
  
Fury’s agitated pace evident across the screens, “Rogers, he hasn’t called his therapist in weeks, that was my one express stipulation for doing missions. He stopped the medications, didn’t he? You didn’t think to tell me about that?”  
  
Hand on Steve’s arm, whispered voice from Natasha, “Whatever happened between you two, you’re the only one he trusts.”  
  
“Stark will figure out who’s behind that mess in Cartagena,” Fury’s voice clear even as he disappeared from their view.  
  
Steve countered, “Stark? I’m not trusting his agenda right about now.”  
  
Fury dropped in a chair, his features filling the screen, “We’ll get Barnes under lock and key, get him the help he needs. If he still wants to explore that old shoebox then fine we can take a look at it.”  
  
Tension settled in Steve’s jaw, muscle twitch clear beneath his beard, body stiffening, closed fist connecting with the table, “Bullshit. We’re back to this again? Locking him up? His plan broke Hydra’s base in Boston, his plan dumped their data into Stark’s lap, he called it about Cartagena, acting too late on that intel got us in this mess. When does he get the credit? When do you and everyone else stop trying to cage him?”  
  
Fury’s backpedaling, “The wrong choice of words, Rogers,” didn’t stop him from still pushing, “Stark wants to help. I want to help. Barnes is off the rails, he proved that in Cartagena, proving it now, you said he was stable, trustworthy. Here we are, he’s back on the run. Doing what? Chasing dead men? Taking commands from an auditory hallucination? You need help with him. Let us help you.”  
  
Steve’s thoughts flashed to the surveillance image of Bucky, gaze direct, a message meant for him, words clear even without the audio, “Sorry, sorry, it’s better this way.” Calmness spreading out from his gut, sure in his new-forming belief that Bucky knew where he was going all along. Holding onto his conviction that he wasn’t running away but leaving him behind, protecting him, a final word as he strode towards the door, “I --- we don’t need your help. He doesn’t answer to you, we don’t answer to you.”  
  
“Rogers, he’s a liability...”  
  
A quick turn back, finger pointed at the screen, “Stay away from him. Stay away from us.”  
  
  
Minutes spent in the tactical room feeling like hours, urgency roaring up from his gut, spreading across his chest, Fury’s last words replaying in his mind, “You better get to him before the rest of us do.” Body hunching down tight to the Harley, hand, and foot working in tandem, he pushed the bike to its limits of speed trying to join Bucky sure that he knew where he was heading.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

Tony Stark favored the wheeled stool with a low back while spending long hours consuming the data that encircled him in his lab. Holographic screens hovering random, luminescence surrounding, the soft pool glimmering in the center his spotlight, the shifting bright to dark glow bathing him in their reflection. Darkness spreading deeper out towards the corners of the room, dim, to faded to black.  
  
The call from Natasha spurring him on, the accusations of setting them up a personal affront. A return to the Boston data an effort to prove himself justified, a means to deflect from events on the tarmac, festering wounds with Steve, embarrassment at his own loss of control. The nagging tick of sympathy towards the man he hated at odds with his need for justice, a hint of regret at the lie about the handcuffs, emotions pin-balling back and forth matching the roll of his stool.  
  
Delving deep into the methodical work of data, an attempt to avoid a glaring request. A book centered on his desk, sitting in its own bright pool of light, never opened by his hand but its invitation growing.  
  
A rolling push left to right, a hard swipe across the air, notations muttered barely audible, picked up by the microphone nestled on his head. An opposite slide right to left, swiping back and forth, replay on replay of old information calculated new, pulling apart every layered nuance.  
  
Each trip side to side, a lingering glance towards the book settled in the soft glow of a reading light. Waiting patient, attentive, near a demand to be explored. Something Stark remained loathed to answer, any demands, the book locked away for over a year. Too painful to approach, the gut-tearing feelings pushing recklessness, better to hide it safely tucked away. Pulled out now after the tarmac, after Barnes fell to his knees at his feet, questions about visions and torture, images sliding past his face adding to the crawling sensation that Rogers may have been right about Barnes. He wasn’t in control of his mind.  
  
“Just doesn’t fit.” Scratching his head to stir his hair into an unnatural curve up. Tony spoke to the air, staring at the manifests of Hydra connections, weapons, and locations, contacts branching layer on layer, the missing link eluding him.  
  
Aberrant image rolling past, pulled back by his finger, yellow background, black lock piquing his interest, “Keeping secrets are we?” Rapid taps to launch a program, a separate image showing the progress, letters, and numbers searching for the password. Tony’s gaze fell to the book, dark leather near glowing in its pool of light. A tenuous reach to touch it aborted by a ping, yellow background turned to green, absent comment “Well that was easy, stop using your dog’s name as a passwo...” stopped short by the three-word bold statement on the screen, **Winter Soldier Project.**

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

“ _You never learn, do you Soldat? This is a supremely bad idea. No wonder Hydra wiped your mind, repeatedly."_  
  
Bucky’s scurry down the embankment in the dark devolved into slipping to his butt, ending in a slide on his back landing hard next to the road.  
_  
“Graceful as...”  
_  
“Don’t. Just don’t.” A purposeful shake of his head to clear the leaves, quick inventory of the ache at his back from landing on the knife, check at his waistband for the Glock, he dropped the backpack between his legs, stuck a flashlight in his mouth and pulled out the pill bottles. “Medication time,” a sing-song mutter around the flashlight, “Fuck no water. Oh well.”  
  
_“Once again, poor planning. This is why...”_  
  
“Wonder if double dosing works better?” Heavy sigh as he dry-swallowed the meds, pulling himself to his feet, a purposeful turn towards the driveway yards away. Faint shiver of uncertainty tossing his gut up and over to settle down into a familiar tightness. Bucky took one step, then another and yet again, undeterred when the motion lights flashed on, ignoring the whir of cameras following him, he kept moving forward down the drive. Conscious effort to lock away his memories of Steve, deep-seated in that compartment long used to hide him, forever protected. Steps counted, stride measured, muttered numbers divisible by three, he headed towards his inevitable face-to-face with Tony Stark.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

Images flashing over and beside, circling and dancing, slipping by Tony’s vision, sepia-toned and worn, photos of pictures, headlines, and files, Hydra’s ancient history. Haunting face darting past, his hand catching the movement, pulling it back to hover clear in front of him. Black leather-clad man, metal arm, red star, weapons hanging from his body, a rifle in his hand. Tony stared hard, fighting the pull of the man’s voided gaze, features flat and cold. Tight burn in his chest not wanting to be taken in by the image, drawn to study him closer. A slide from his stool, one step then another, his breath sending ripples across the image, mental note of gray eyes, mind, and heart delving into the picture searching for the hint of a soul.  
  
A lilting disembodied voice jarring the moment, “The visitor you were expecting has arrived, Sir.” Tony stumbled back a step, shaking his head, hand slashing push to make the image spin chaotic circling around him time and again, slowing to a stop on his left.  
  
“Thank you, F.R.I.D.A.Y, please have him shown in here.” Anxious steps wandering.  
  
“Sir, he is armed.”  
  
Huffed laugh turned to serious, “No doubt. So am I, so am I.” Settling retreat to the stool. Slow spin turning quicker anxious energy spilling out through his feet, pushing himself around in a circle until the dizziness blurred his vision, he caught his turn on the counter. Eyes closed steadying equilibrium, deep breaths to ease the tightness in his chest, hand darting to flick images again, up and over, down and aside, stopping on the man-sized chambers.  
  
“Cryostasis over the years. A PBS Special” muttered words meant as a joke, spoken aloud, their humor falling flat even for him.  
  
Deliberate scattering of the data in the air around him, keeping the image of the chambers locked ahead, holding the picture of the Soldier to his left. His gaze seeming to bounce next to next as he slid side to side, attention disrupted by his impending visitor, caught up by the book as his stool rolled past. Fingers tentative reaching, slipping to run cautious across the aged leather, marked by time and wear. A hesitant fingertip under the cover, a start to explore the pages falling away with the lab door opening.  
  
One man standing in the doorway, face in the shadows, the swatch of light from the hallway spilling across the darkness surrounding him in its glow.  
  
A secretive pull of papers to cover the book, Stark spun on the stool to turn his back to the man.  
  
“Arnie took you long enough. I’m starving,” Tony’s waved hand a flourished greeting, pointing at the desk, “What are we having tonight? It’s Wednesday, your night to pick, or is it Tuesday and my night? Thursday? I lose track of time when I’m studying my enemies.”  
  
Silent steps forward, the door closing behind, hallway light dissipating. Bucky moved through the shadows, cautious angled pace inching forward, studying gaze, holding to the dark outer reaches of the room, remaining mute to Stark’s questions.  
  
Bucky’s attention caught up by the scene, reluctant wonder, flashes of Howard Stark’s science. The hovering circle of projected screens colors morphing, images hanging in the air, moving and not, all of it spilling its glow into the center, casting its bright, soft-edged spotlight on its master, Tony Stark.  
  
Shimmering and skittering names, numbers, pictures of places foreign at first, no more than glittering objects to be eyed with amazement. Breath caught up in guarded excitement pulled back as the history came clear. Hydra’s data rolling past Bucky’s gaze, familiar places sliding by, twisting his gut, pulse throbbing at his temple as he stared at his own face, dark and somber, himself and not himself, hovering within an arm’s reach, close-guarded tremor moving down his body.  
  
Tony spoke again, eyes focused on the lucent wall of data back turned to Bucky. “Bring it in, Arnie, walk right through, pay no attention to the ugly guy with the metal arm. Just a hologram. Nothing real about him.”  
  
Nausea tore at Bucky’s gut, knees weakening, a fight to hold onto his thoughts as he stood in Stark’s lab, the man so close he could smell his sweat, his past hanging exposed between them. Shimmering images sliding past at the mercy of Stark’s fingers, scene after scene of his history, spinning around the room. One picture stopping his breath, his torn away arm flickering up, Stark’s head-tilted study lasting three seconds, Bucky so certain, counting internal, three long seconds before the image danced aside to hide beneath the numbers.  
  
Eyes struggling to stay on Stark, drawn to chase the pictures spinning around the room, fighting to keep his focus, pulled in by taunting images. Faces of men, names burned into his memory, the chamber history in pictures forcing the cold to creep under his skin. Bile rising burn at his throat, ghosting hands on his body, dragging him from his sleep. Final reminder skittering past, the dark engulfing machine meant to wipe away all that he knew, brought to a halt in front of his face by the flick of Tony Stark’s finger.  
  
Bucky’s dare to wonder morphing to panic with every slide of Stark’s hand pushing his history across the air, life slipping past, reduced to a clinical exam, data on data, an asset to be studied, reviewed, refined and manipulated. Pulling in a deep breath to ground scattering thoughts, flesh fingers tangling in the hem of Steve’s sweater an attempt to quiet the tremors he stepped through the image of himself as the Soldier to enter Stark’s circle of light.  
  
“You’re pretty quiet tonight. Spring cold? Cat got your tongue? Oh, wait.” Tony waved a hand in the air to land two fingers on his temple, “You’re not Arnie, my favorite delivery guy. You’re an assassin, modus operandi kill first, talk later. No small talk with your targets?” Stark never turned around.  
  
Bucky stood square wide-stance, eyes wary and full, holding close the sickness rolling in his gut, sweat forming cold on his neck, hair pulled up in a ball, gaze intent on the back of Stark’s head. Ready for what would come next.  
  
“Turning around now, so don’t get jumpy.” A slow-motion spin of the stool brought Stark to face him, a near smirking grimace, “So you found the open entrance. Well done.”  
  
Bucky didn’t answer, eyes locked on the glow at the center of Stark’s chest.  
  
Tony tilted his head, “Sober this time?”  
  
Voice dry, more cracked than he wanted, “Sober.”  
  
Languid roll of his shoulders, Tony crossed his arms, “You walked right into the Avengers Facility. My home by the way. You really do have balls don’t you?”  
  
_“Some genius. Give him time, he’ll figure it out.”_  
  
A muttered, “Under debate.”  
  
A sudden shift of his feet, Tony’s smile came and went at Bucky’s flinching step back, “Are you here to make it three for three?”  
  
“Three? What? How do you know...” The tremor that shook his body, hard to hide, cutting off his words.  
  
“Three. Dad. Mom. Me.” A thumb raised, then a forefinger. The last gesture a single middle finger.  
  
Bucky’s purposeful denial, “No. I don’t want to.”  
  
Tony’s squinted question emphasized by a wag of the extended finger, “Why the gun then? You’re armed right? Tucked right there.” He pointed at Bucky’s waist.  
  
Deep breath to force out his answer, “Not going to make the same mistake as the quinjet.”  
  
A huffed laugh and hands waved in the air, “What? No Score?”  
  
Bucky muttered, “Not a game.”  
  
A snarled observation, “Funny way to surrender, with a gun tucked in your pants, a knife at your back. You were scanned when you walked in here. What’s that in the backpack?” Tony tapped on a holographic screen, “Right. Medications. An assassin who takes his meds. How responsible of you.”  
  
“Not surrendering.” Split-second flicker of his gaze to Stark’s face before returning to settle on the glow of the arc.  
  
Stark rose from his stool, “Okay, are we going to play 20 questions here?”  
  
Bucky scrambled steps back, hand moving to the Glock not pulling it clear, “Don’t." A chiding thought towards himself for flinching.  
  
_“Pathetic, Soldat.”_  
  
Tony laughed, “See this right here,” a finger to the glow on his chest. “It’s the suit. All it takes is a tap, one finger and the suit appears, boom. Nanotechnology. Really amazing stuff.” Two steps taken towards Bucky driving him back equal steps. “If you weren’t the cold-blooded murderer of my parents maybe we could share pastrami on rye and chat about it.”  
  
“What the fuck?” A stubborn firm effort to not let his feet move more than Stark's advances, keeping their measured distance.  
  
“Let's make a wager. How fast can you drag that gun out of your pants, pull that trigger then how fast does that bullet travel?” Stark flicked a screen down and away, another one up, finger tapping furious, “Let’s do some math. Do you mind? I’m just going to calculate who dies first. Me or you. Your gun and trigger finger against my suit. I don’t like losing, so I don’t make bets I’m likely to lose.”  
  
Bucky's hand fell away from the Glock, “I don’t want to hurt you.”  
  
Stark waved a hand towards the door, “It’s over. You walked in here. That’s surrendering in my book. Security is on its way.”  
  
“Security is always on its way.” Rolling his shoulder, chasing after the beading sweat that rolled down his back.  
  
Tony took another step closer, “You don’t look well. Just give me the gun and the knife and whatever other weapons you’ve gut shoved down your pants and let’s call it a night.”  
  
Bucky moved again, guarding the distance between them, “Not surrendering.”  
  
Stark paced in front of him, “Then why the fuck are you here if you’re not here to kill me or surrender, it’s not movie night. What brings you here?”  
  
Shifting weight left to right, “I need something from you.”  
  
“Oh, this is rich.” Tony’s full body laugh dropping him onto the stool.  
  
  
Bucky raised his eyes to meet Stark’s, counting his numbers internal, close call with nearly spilling them out loud pulled back by biting his lip. Seconds passing in silence before, “I have a mission.”  
  
Tony’s sarcasm not hidden, “And you want what? A box lunch, a jet; no wait, how about a handler?”  
  
Gaze not wavering, “No.”  
  
“Fine.” Stark leaned back crossing his arms, “I’m a man with more than just money, brains, good looks. I have a fair, actually a large amount of curiosity. Tell me, what a sad piece of shit like you might think he needs from me. I have some ideas, but I’ll let you go first.”  
  
Bucky’s words firm, “I need you to not hurt him.”  
  
Tony questioning, “Rogers I assume. You don’t want me to hurt Rogers?”  
  
Forging ahead, “A man from my past. Hydra. He needs to be stopped. I have to go without --- Steve. This is on me. My mission. Have to leave him behind.”  
  
“So you want me to babysit Rogers? We’re not on speaking terms. You recall that correct?" A finger waved at his head then pointing at Bucky, "Oh, wait, you’re the reason we’re not on speaking terms.”  
  
Deep breath pulled in, hard swallow to start, “No. Don’t hurt him." Bucky ran his tongue across dry lips trying to find the words, "I’m asking you to not hurt him." Weight shifting foot to foot, anxiety twisting in his chest, "I give you my word. I will give up to you. Surrender to you. Ross, the Raft, kill me. Just let me finish this mission and don't hurt him."  
  
Stark jerked up from the stool, angry pacing, "Why the hell would I trust you? Trust your word?"  
  
Bucky didn’t look away, feet firmly planted, both thumbs twisting into Steve's sweater, “You have nothing to lose. Everything to gain.”  
  
Hissed within an arm’s reach, “I have everything I need.”  
  
Voice quiet, Bucky sure of his answer, “You don’t have him.”  
  
Tony stepped closer, anger chasing across his face, fist closing pulling at Bucky’s attention, seconds passing taking forever, “This isn’t some love triangle.”  
  
Bucky raised his eyes, connecting with Stark, “Not love. Not that. I don’t know what to call it. Not paid to know, just do. Not paid at all.”  
  
_“So close Soldat, so very close. Within reach of your hand, a glorious end to die with him.”_  
  
Words coming easier, breath falling into a slow rhythm, the glare from Stark losing its meaning, “He was protecting me. That’s what he does. Protects people. Protects the weak. You didn’t need protection. He wanted to save me. He did.” Slow blinking through his whisper, “My turn now, save someone. He can’t come with me, but I need to know you won’t hurt him while I’m gone.”  
  
Tony’s fist fell slack, back straightening, a half step back, anger giving way to wary curiosity, staring long and hard at Bucky, meeting his unwavering gaze. More steps backing away, minutes passing between them, no words, close study of the man he hated, not resembling the image still hanging suspended over his shoulder. Features wearing fatigue, Tony’s gaze running over him, closer look than ever allowed, both thumbs entangled in the threads of a sweater hanging below his jacket, pack slung on his back, long hair pulled up in a ragged mess. Gray eyes not empty or cold, more lost than deadly.  
  
He pointed at Bucky. “Can’t believe I’m saying this. No one would believe I’m saying this. You’ve got a leaf in your hair.”  
  
Bucky didn’t move.  
  
Stark turned towards a hovering screen, pushing the Hydra data down to disappear, pulling up a map, “Where’s this mission of yours? I'm supposed to trust that once you’re done, you’ll show up at my door again?”  
  
Shaking his head, pulling in a steadying breath, “You don’t need to know where. If I live, yes. I’ll come back.”  
  
Tony stretched his back, “Not good enough. Are you walking there?”  
  
_“_ _Starting_ _to like this one.”_  
  
Bucky frowned, “No. I’m resourceful. I’ll get there.”  
  
Stark swung around, quick steps to move within his reach again, “Great. I’m sure you’re quite resourceful but here’s the deal. You are now my future prisoner so if you want me to ‘not hurt him’ then we do this my way. I get to know where you’re going and you take my quinjet. That way I track you even if you’re lying. I can follow your sorry ass wherever you go. You veer off the path, I come after you. You don’t show up at your destination, I come after you. You don’t come back in what, one week?”  
  
Bucky countered, “Four weeks.”  
  
Stark not accepting, “Too long, two weeks.”  
  
A firm non-negotiable, irritated, “Not long enough. Three weeks.”  
  
Tony stared at him for at least six seconds by Bucky’s count, “Fine. Three weeks it is. Sold. Deal made. I will be on your ass so fast at one minute past midnight in twenty-one days you will not know what ran you over.” A quick return to the screens, fingers pushing and slashing images side to side.  
  
Bucky stood his ground watching the back of his head, “Do I have your word you won’t hurt him?”  
  
A curt, “You do.” Tony swung around to face him. “Do I have your word that you’ll give yourself up?”  
  
Steps taken to close the gap, Bucky stopped within an inch of the glow embedded in Stark’s chest, breath long and slow, no hiding the tremor that sat beneath his skin every minute of every day. Eyes brought up to meet Stark’s hard gaze, “I give you my word when I am done with this mission, I will surrender to you, I won’t fight it, won’t change my mind.”  
  
Tony asked, “Not even for him?”  
  
The words catching hard in this throat, a whisper so low, Stark strained to hear it, “He’s better off without me.” Bucky turned to walk away, feet dragging to a halt he spoke to Stark over his shoulder, “One last thing, if you kill me. Please don’t do it in front of him.”  
  
“You’re no fun.” Stark turned to plot Bucky’s flight path. An afterthought thrown in, “Remember, if you don’t get back here in twenty days, twenty-three hours and fifteen minutes I’m coming after you.”  
  
Bucky’s final retort under his breath, “Got it. Trust me, Stark, I’m counting on it.”

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

  
Tony Stark spun in the rolling stool, a circle within a circle, finger tossing images around and around left then right then back. Bright then dark flashing across his body, numbers and names, buildings, headlines, always coming back to the grainy tones of the early days, back to the images of Barnes. “Piece of shit. Standing here in my home, bargaining for the life of your --- friend. Who lied to me.”  
  
Gaze caught by one image that spun past him, not noticed before now, his hand found it to pull back and sit direct in front of him. Eyes closed to hold onto his emotions, anxiety gripping his chest, both hands flat palmed on the counter, anger winning out. The book uncovered fist slamming hard into a black star sitting in the center of the red leather, quick gesture to tear it apart aborted, instead hurled far across the lab through his mother’s hovering picture.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

Clear skies dotted with stars, bright points over the expanse of the forest surrounding the airport, full moon spilling its softness across the darkened quinjet, sitting unattended on the tarmac, an open invitation.  
  
Outside world looking in at Steve Rogers saw the picture of composure, decisive, strong, the “No, you move,” man. Captain America, Nomad, whatever title they wanted to hang around his neck, none of it actually mattered in the end, all that ever mattered was Bucky.  
  
Rapid-fire images, clicking through his mind, all Bucky; defiant, hurt, lost in the throes of their coming, features resolute and impassive on the grainy last evidence of his plan, the security camera footage. Uncertainty an unfamiliar companion, anxiety cutting breaths shallow, sending tightness across his shoulders, Steve stood arms crossed, watching and waiting in the darkness. Eyes slipping cautious to the shield, nested on the front of the bike, shadowed, red star a barely there outline.  
  
  
“No sign of him from up here.” Sam’s circling update crackled in his ear.  
  
Natasha’s low whisper from the quinjet, “Nothing on board here.”  
  
  
  
The vibration of his phone startling his thoughts, the hot flush of hope, Steve fumbled it from his pocket. His answer sounding terser than he wanted, “Where are you?”  
  
No words spoken, breath heard so close it felt warm, eyes closed aching for the sound he’d know anywhere. “God damn it, Buck, where are you?”  
  
Bucky’s answer, “Hello nice to talk to you too, Steve.”  
  
Welcomed sarcasm filling his hearing, covering his worry with being pissed off, “Where are you?”  
  
“On my way.” Resignation clear.  
  
Trying to keep his voice steady, hearing Bucky slipping away, “Where?”  
  
A quiet, “Not there.”  
  
Steve, more desperate than angry, “Why did you call. If you’re not coming here, you’re leaving, why call, to do what, rub it in my face?”  
  
“No. I can think of better things to rub in your face than taunting you.”  
  
The smirk in Bucky’s voice tearing at Steve, fist clenching he started to pace. “Not funny.’’  
  
  
Bucky let the moment hang then added, “I need something.”  
  
Steve snapping, “Need something? What? Money? The shoebox? Keys to the jet? Clean underwear? You don’t wear underwear. Remember?”  
  
Bucky’s laughter landing as a punch to Steve’s gut, doubling him over, quick gasp of air to keep breathing. A sigh ending the laugh before whispering, “Needed to hear your voice.”  
  
Cupping his hand to the phone, an afterthought to pull the comm-link from his ear, Steve’s desperate insistence, “Come home.”  
  
Breath capturing itself, holding tight to his emotions, “Can’t do that.”  
  
Steve pacing towards the bike, hand gripping the shield, “God damn it, Buck, you gave me your word. You said it. I will not go without you.”  
  
Soft insistence, “I didn’t say that.”  
  
“Don’t tell me you forgot, this isn’t a game or semantics, you said it. You lied to me.” A glance up to see Natasha running towards him.  
  
Bucky’s answer gentle, “I didn’t forget, I didn’t lie. You weren’t listening. What I said was; I won’t go alone.”  
  
Steve shook his head, “What? What did you say?”  
  
“Right.” Bucky’s words clear and precise, “Not alone.”  
  
“Stop it. Just fucking stop it.” Steve paced hard and fast, hand raking through his hair, “That voice isn’t someone, isn’t going to protect you. That Voice isn’t me. Besides you said it yourself, it’s you, your voice in your head. So no it does not qualify as going with someone. Technicality, I know but you are going alone even if that Voice is blabbering away.”  
  
Bucky cut him off, “Wow and they call me the emotional one.”  
  
Steve dropped his head back, deep breath pulled in, gaze taking in the stars, “Please tell me this is all just a joke, you’re pissed at me, you’re over there behind the trailer, laughing your ass off. Fine, funny you got me.”  
  
He stayed head tilted back, Bucky’s voice low spoken, clear and intimate in his hearing, faint rasp of fatigue, “I didn’t lie to you. I gave my word, and I meant it, only I’m not going with you. It’s not safe. I’m not gonna be alone, and it’s not the Voice in my head.”  
  
Head dropping to his chest, Steve kicked at the dirt pebbles skittering across the tarmac, “Okay I’ll bite, who then? Who are you with?”  
  
“Bite me, Rogers? Is that what you said? I’d like that, a lot.” Bucky’s laugh catching Steve’s breath again before adding, “Can’t tell you.”  
  
A sharp turn away from Natasha’s eyes, he fake-raged into the phone, “You are the most stubborn, petulant, untrustworthy, jerk I’ve ever met.”  
  
Teasing words, “I’ve studied with the best.”  
  
“Hydra taught you how to be a jerk?” His hand fell to rest on the shield.  
  
“No --- You did.”  
  
“Asshole. Come home.”  
  
Loud sigh, Bucky pushed forward, “Look, I just wanted to tell you something can I do that without a fucking lecture?”  
  
Conscious and careful, Steve's tracing finger followed the outline of the red star, “Sure. What the hell is written on that paper? It’s not coordinates, an address? Code, that’s it, right? Tasha already said it wasn’t Russian.”  
  
Bucky interrupted, “Are we in the same conversation here? I just said I want to tell you something and you said, ‘Sure.’ Then started asking me questions that you know I won’t answer.”  
  
Steve tucked his hand under his armpit, steadying his breathing, “Sorry, sorry. Right, what? What did you want to say?”  
  
Bucky’s voice cracking, their connection fading, “Look, Rogers, I, just need to tell you --- I --- I never thanked you for, you know, saving me.”  
  
Straining to hear, “What? Saved you? You’d do the same." Steve kept talking through the static, "I get the feeling you’re doing that right now.”  
  
Words breaking up, Bucky's voice getting louder, shouting over the interference, “Okay, running out of time here, gotta go. Just, right, don’t do anything stupid. Like following me.”  
  
Static noises going dead, all sounds ending, Steve closed his eyes listening to the emptiness, "Buck? Bucky? Don't you fucking hang up. Damn it.”  
  
Phone tossed to the ground, the tightness in his chest unrelenting, Steve tore the shield from the bike, full body winding around, all of his strength sending it sailing far across the tarmac, a distant clang as it embedded into a tree. A close-held whisper only for himself, “Come back to me.”

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

  
  
  
Guarded steps echoed off the pale green walls of the hallway, the thump of boots as they connected rhythmic with the faded brown tiles stirring the residents on either side. Voices muffled at first, gaining strength with every footfall as he passed.  
  
A cacophony of noise announcing his arrival. Steps coming to a halt in front of a rotund man in a long brown robe, no words being exchanged, moments passing expectant, a faint nod to signal his readiness. Cackling screams reverberating as the key slipped into the lock, eyes closed for a second to ward off the ache in his hearing, still plagued by the ringing from his final encounter with a stun prod.  
  
Bucky took a very long deep breath before stepping over the threshold into the putrid green-walled cell. The red-gold of a sunrise spilling its hopeful light across the sparse interior, the occupant at the window, taking it in, not turning around, not acknowledging his presence. A fleeting second thought of how much of a bad idea this was, his body twitched his uncertainty, a quick decision to leave, enough of a tell for his prisoner to know of his change of heart. Her words stopping his turn to leave.  
  
“It’s about time." Low voice aged and creaking from disuse, whispering clear enough for his hearing across the room, "I knew you’d come for me, Soldat. You could never stay away.”

An internal groan that he lost his advantage within the first three minutes of their reunion.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arnie the delivery guy mentioned in the story is a nod to Arnie Roth from the Captain America comics. In canon, Arnie is gay.
> 
> A neighborhood friend of a young pre-Captain America Steve Rogers. Arnie Roth normally took up for the scrawny Steve Rogers when he was bullied by neighborhood Brooklyn toughs. (sounds a bit like Bucky right?)  
> Arnie served with distinction in World War II as a sailor. He did run into Steve Rogers at this time and marveled that he had undergone such a physical transformation (courtesy of the Super-Soldier Serum that made him Captain America).  
> After the war, Arnie met Steve again, telling him that he had guessed that he was, in fact, the costumed icon, Captain America. Captain America helped Arnie rescue his boyfriend Michael from kidnappers. Michael was killed by Vermin. Arnie later assisted Captain America and his computer hotline for some time.  
> He eventually died of cancer. (source Marvel wikia)


	14. Mother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My wholehearted gratitude to all who follow my humble story. If you feel so inclined I love to hear from readers. If you are shy, no worries, I love that you've come to spend some time with me and the boys. Thank you so much! ♥♥

  
“ _How the hell did she get that pristine hair knot without the full function of her hand? Look at her, not a strand out of place. You need to pick her brain for hair management pointers. Remember that darting glance in the mirror while you took a piss on the jet? The wood nymph look doesn’t suit you, ask Stark.”_

  
Bucky squelched his sigh, balanced his weight, and stood stiff-backed willing the outward evidence of his apprehension to settle into a rhythmic curl and uncurl of his toes; well hidden should his nemesis turn around, still effective for channeling his anxiety. Minutes passing, staring at the fluorescent green back of an ill-fitting jumpsuit, rolled cuffs soiled from the drag at her heels, black sleeve covering the arm he could see, a thumb looped through a ragged hole at the wrist.  
  
_“Green is not her color. How many times did she mention that? Sure, it was funny when you dumped her here; payback, green hallways, green walls, green haute couture. She’s had four long months of abject nothingness to contemplate your use of color as revenge. The price for that will be pain.”_  
  
Long slow breath in, purposeful silence fighting the Voice. Holding onto everything he wanted to say, planned on saying, the longing for the numbness of his old way of life creeping into his consciousness. Time slowing down, heart beating efficient, tense muscles settling into relaxed readiness, body memory of a finger poised on a trigger, hair-touch, missing the calm he remembered right before hell breaks loose.  
  
Bucky’s thoughts scrambling away from his history, allowing his gaze to slip discreet around her cell, thin mattress laid on cold concrete, the too-bright yellow of a bean bag chair crammed with disrespect into the corner, white porcelain glaring in the open. Single flat pillow balanced square on a threadbare blanket precisely folded and centered on the bed, admission of ingrained habits. Sparse conditions fitting her location, Ravencroft Institute for the Criminally Insane, conveniently abhorrent to her senses, the details not something he had planned but found karmic in its existence.  
  
_“Here’s to the good old days, at least she’s got that yellow blob to sit on. Not like the cells, she stuck you in, barren. You let her have clothing. Decent of you. Maybe she hasn’t noticed; what goes around comes around. She’s ninety by now, probably not that sharp anymore.”_  
  
Rehearsed words sitting waiting to be spoken. Six-hour flight to reach her, autopilot on at Stark’s uncompromising insistence, still not enough time to act out every scenario. Counted steps pacing in the jet, practicing tone and inflection, add gestures, stand still; say nothing, spill his guts; rage at her inflicted cruelty for his lifetime with her, knowing she knew full well what she’d done to him. The ringing in his ear made worse by the flight, full reminder of her methods to control him, stun prod jammed to his neck, tearing the scream from his body. Her terse smile the last image he’d see as the shock took him down. Conscious decision to leave his weapons on the jet when he finally arrived, not that he’d need them to end her existence.  
  
_“Tick-tock, pal. Mother score one. Soldat: Zero. You flinched in the first three minutes. Now you’re staring at her back. Feels familiar, doesn’t it? Waiting for her commands.”_  
  
Bucky holding back, unable to step off the edge of this abyss standing in the presence of his torturer. Tightness crossing his chest remembering Steve’s possessive hold lying in their bed, fingers caught in his hair, pulling to make their eyes meet his look intense even in the dark demanding his promise, “Don’t ever go back to her. Swear to me, you won’t go back.” Giving his word, meaning it each time, shame heating his skin, finding himself staring at the Widow who helped create the Soldier. The echo of his broken promise filling his mind, “No more, I’m done with her.”  
  
  
Gut rumbling loud, reflexive thumb catching the hem of Steve’s sweater, hiding the fingers pressed to his belly, willing away the disturbance. Quick thought searching for the last food he’d eaten, denying the stress of his choice to seek her help, wishing there was some other way. Dull ache of regret claiming his chest, spreading deep into his heart, thoughts running back to Steve, pushed behind the protective door, time and again escaping.  
  
The whole plan nearly collapsing in the quinjet bay with Stark’s caustic assessment, “My money, my fuel, my jet, my flight plan.” The confrontation escalating, the two of them inches apart, Bucky refusing to tell his exact destination, feet planted, the zipper of his jacket near to snagging Stark’s sweater, eyes locked, neither backing down. Angry insistence of working alone, need to know, too dangerous for all involved, none of it moving Stark’s feet or his demands. Guards emerging from the shadows, not unexpected, surrounding their argument, seconds from hands on his body, Bucky relenting.  
  
_“Now that one has balls. Taking the air around you meant for the Captain. Sure of himself, like someone we know --- not you. Pathetic you didn’t toss him aside.”_  
  
Close-guarded shiver with the flash of that memory, catching his muttered retort, “Knock it off,” before it spilled out within her hearing. Scattering thoughts searched for grounding, latching onto dark marks on the wall. A pattern of dots seven across in each row, attention pulled in without leaving the doorway, the method familiar, blood used to mark the passage of days. Hot flush across pale skin at the irony of her accounting, faded memories still real and present of his earliest time with Hydra, counting down his life, blood marks across a wall, starting the day they showed him Steve’s death. Grief punished by her hand.  
  
_“You didn’t seem to mind the alternate Captain they provided to drag you from the brink of self-destruction. Quite the happy distraction until it wasn’t. Gutting him; impressive. Not so impressive; letting your guard down.”_  
  
Rasped Russian words spoken within reach of his arm, “Are you in disguise? A student perhaps? Trying to blend in with the pathetic sheep of society? If that is your goal, you’ve failed. You’re a mess.”

 _“Mother: Two. Soldat: Zero.”_  
  
Her move across the cell quick and soundless, a reflection of her training, a Widow now and always. Bucky didn’t flinch. A deliberate, measured turn of his head to look down his chest at the woman staring up at him. Her features burned into his memory. Gray hair turned white, the weeks in captivity showing within the furrows of her face, cheeks hollowed more, skin pale, lips pressed as he remembered, a thin line of disapproval. Right hand hidden, tucked deep in her pocket, split-second glance, a knowing look shared between them, an injury he inflicted. Gieta Sokolov, Black Widow, agent of Hydra, the creator and guardian of the words drilled into his brain, stood staring up at him, the top of her head not reaching his armpit.  
  
Her gaze unwavering, “Sixteen weeks. Far beyond protocol,” tsk’d disapproval made more evident in the spit of her Cyrillic words, “A challenge to regroup with our superiors. They will have assumed our capture or death. We will need passports, transportation, money.” A pause to run a slow critical eye down his body, a two-finger pluck at her jumpsuit, adding, “Clothing more suitable to our respective roles.”  
  
_“Soldat, you are doing so well. All that rehearsing on the jet, sitting, standing, fist clenched, unclenched. I especially liked the casual weight swung onto one hip, body language relaxed and yet still threatening, classic Winter Soldier. At some point, you’re going to have to use words here.”_  
  
Bucky bit the inside of his cheek the bitter taste of blood a distraction from the Voice’s indictment, desperate measure to hold the tremors at bay. Frozen in place, legs too heavy to move, a faint tilt of his head to study her closer, fleeting thought wondering how this bird-like woman held him prisoner for all those years. A frown at the Voice’s reminder.  
  
_“Stun prod, mind wipes, torture, manipulation, trigger words, psychological condition...”_  
  
Sokolov snapping, “Stop it. You’re staring. You forget your place, Soldat.”  
  
The force of her tone shaking his attention, eyes darting away, three seconds counting, hard forcing himself to bring his gaze back to challenge her.  
  
_“Mother: Three. Soldat: Zero.”_  
  
Pushing down the doubts about his plan creeping across his mind, bringing sweat to his skin, the slippery slope of being in her presence, desperate to not fall back under her control. Quick retreat to find Steve, hidden away, metal fingers reaching reflexive for the skin of his neck, his bite fading too soon, still tender with pressure, pinched hard in the moment, forcing the bruise back into existence. Holding tight to the memory of Steve’s mouth claiming his flesh.  
  
Thin finger pointing, coming close to his cherished mark, “What is this?” Words spoken with less anger than ownership, demanding an accounting of how her possession came to be touched in ways she’d never allow.  
  
Bucky watching her hand moving towards him, unable to make his body back away, voice staying hidden, his mind telling him to move, step away, grab her wrist, something to show he wasn’t her property. Not fighting her slap of his hand from the caress of his own skin, her expression changing from questioning to jealous. Finger tracing the bruised evidence of Steve’s mouth, soft then firm then digging to pinch deep into this throat.  
  
“Don’t.” Bucky’s one word, guttural growl in English, harsh and loud and certain. A moment of winning as she jerked her hand back, a startle racing across her features long enough for him to catch a glimpse before scurrying behind her facade of control.  
  
_“Finally on the scoreboard. Mother three; Soldat one.”_  
  
No apprehensive steps back, Sokolov remained inches from his chest, bold staring up into his face, a virtual gauntlet thrown down, holding firm to her Russian, “How dare you. Speaking in that tone. Speaking to me at all. You are an unruly child gone too long without proper discipline.”  
  
_“She has never been wrong about that.”_  
  
Involuntary shake of his head, Bucky found his own voice, hesitant at first, stronger with each uttered declaration, his equally as stubborn holding to English, “She --- you, may be right about that, but we, you, are not my handler any longer. A child? So be it. Needing discipline? Without a doubt.” He leaned closer to her ear, tense words, “Not. Yours. I don’t answer to you any longer.”  
  
_“Nice speech, not what you had planned but...”_  
  
Groaned sigh, hand tugging through his hair, frustration moving his body twisting away, quick pace side to side, “Butt out. Just, really butt out.” Catching his words too late. A stumbled landing full body pressed to the wall, palms flat, regret for engaging out loud with the Voice in front of her.  
  
Sokolov’s words more mocking than kind, “Still talking to yourself, I see. You sound like a fool.”  
  
Bucky rolled his forehead against the plaster, its coolness edging down the ache across his temple. One finger tapping in sets of three, eyes closing for longer than he wanted to allow, steadying his breathing, he spoke without moving, “You owe me.”  
  
“I owe you nothing,” hard conviction without hesitation.  
  
Slow roll around to face her, knees bent, feet bracing, his back pressed to the wall taking his fatigue. Gaze studying his boots, determined to face her, a slow rise of his eyes to connect defiant, “You. Owe. Me.”  
  
The old woman returning his stare, taking him in. Bucky watching her assessment ticking past, her thoughts well hidden, visible to his skill, the two measuring one another. His deliberate stare not faltering. A faint raise of her chin, “You’ve been too long away from order, Soldat.” Her good hand waving dismissive, “I owe you nothing,” but her eyes shifted away from him.  
  
Drawn in by her shift, he followed her gaze out the window, the sun full in the sky, bright reflection off the endless expanse of snow, brick wall surrounding her prison.  
  
_“Right up there with the color choice. Snow. You remember her tirades about the cold, Siberia, how she’d rather be in Paris. You’re going to have to sleep with one eye open on this mission. She’s likely to slit your throat otherwise.”_  
  
Bucky’s head fell back, his gaze wandering beyond the window’s bars, thoughts drifting to home. A muttered whisper for himself, “When will these meds kick in?” Eyes closing, fatigue washing over, an aching try to find a way to go home, picturing a rush to Steve, begging forgiveness, missing the comfort of their bed already.  
  
Regret interrupted by Sokolov’s voice. “You’re a fool, Soldat. I saved you.”  
  
“What?” Bucky didn’t open his eyes.  
  
“I said. I saved you. You were dying. Starving yourself to death over the loss of the Captain. I saved you. You should be grateful instead of treating me like some insane criminal. I saved you.” All of her words spoken towards the window, body straight and not moving, hands tucked forceful in her pockets.  
  
Bucky opened his eyes to stare at the back of her head, “Saved me?” A push away from the wall, darting steps closer veering off when he brushed her back, “Saved me from what?” Pacing erratic, hand dragging through his hair, voice cracking, “From death? That would have been a gift.” Steps halting behind her closer than he’d ever dared in their time together, metal fingers ghosting the nape of her neck, rational thought warning restraint, rage wanting revenge, their history keeping him in check.  
  
His cutting words, “Dying would have been a gift instead of what you and Hydra did to me,” pulling a smile from her that he couldn’t see.  
  
Bright reflection off the snow-covered landscape lightening the cell, spilling across their bodies, she spoke towards the window, leaning back near to press against his chest, daring him to touch her, she spoke with disdain, “I kept you alive. You wouldn’t be here now, no chance at your pathetic redemption, no youthful life beyond your years.” She turned to look up into his face, hand light placed on his jacket, ignoring the fist that hovering at her neck, “That alone is my gift to you.”  
  
“Gift?” His laugh catching in his throat, “You think what you did to me is a gift? You treated me like an animal.”  
  
“A fine-tuned weapon, Soldat. Something to be proud of, a glorious masterpiece.” A tilted head assessment of his hand inches from her throat, fingers daring to slide firm towards his shoulder claiming his body, features attempting kindness, “Look at us. Same age you and I, remember?” Her thin smile, not something he’d seen except in the Red Room or when she’d hurt him, “Same age when we met in the beginning.” Tenuous reach to caress, brushing light across his cheek, “Time has been kind to you,” thumb flirting with the patch of his lip still carrying the memory of Steve’s pulling bite.  
  
Seconds feeling like minutes, frozen in place allowing her touch, memory of Steve’s mouth pressed to his lips, her finger’s caress of Steve’s mark jarring his body, he jerked his head from her hand, “Enough.” Staggered steps back, metal hand raised and pointing, marking the space between them an arm's length away, he backed against the wall, “No more.”  
  
_“Score one for setting limits. Lose one for that less than graceful stumble into the wall. You should have shoved her. Net: Zero.”_  
  
Heartbeats passing, her softness turning hard, tucking away any hint of what she may have felt once for the Soldier, loathing in her tone, “Some things never change I see.” Bold steps to approach him, pushing aside his outstretched hand, “Fighting skills beyond all others, our gift to you. Forever youthful, our gift to you, changing the world, our gift to you.” Deliberate pause holding captive his attention, “Your Captain. Once lost now found, lovers again, from the look of your skin.” A fist rapped to her chest, resentment spilling into her words, “I made that possible. Keeping you alive. Whole and young so he would find you attractive.” Single finger slipping beneath his jacket, caught up in the knit of Steve’s sweater, her angry pull moving the fabric against his skin, “Back in his arms again, yes?”  
  
Slowed responses, staring at her hand touching his body, Bucky letting it happen, mind going numb with memories rushing forward, conditioned to allow her touch, taking what she wanted. Not fighting or denying. Nausea rising watching her hand twist in Steve’s sweater, wrapping it tight around her wrist, pressure pulling his body forward, muscles going weak, hating himself for letting it happen.  
  
Pulling in a breath, a stuttered whisper, “Stop it,” not moving her hand or her stance, a louder “No more,” his protest not changing her drag on his clothing. Arms hanging too heavy to move, Bucky fighting with his past, wanting to tear her hand from touching him, shove her aside. Frightened that he’d let her go this far, pulling at his body, her fingers wrapping possessive in his one tangible connection to Steve.  
  
Thoughts falling back to Steve, grasping at the memories, hand in his hair, his words echoing “Not letting go, never letting go,” body weight heavy lying on top of him, mind shaking loose giving power to his voice, “Take your fucking hands off of me.”  
  
Sokolov’s pull cut short, surprise chasing across her face, enough for him to see it before hiding behind her facade. Split second before metal fingers found her wrist she dropped her hold on the sweater, full-force punch to the center of his chest, unexpected rocking his balance, hissing, “You have him because of me.”  
  
Seconds hanging silent, Bucky fighting to control the Voice’s snarking answer, knowing full well what it would say, a tremor free-flowing unable to hide it any longer. His whisper forced, as heartfelt as he could make it, “And for that, I am grateful.”  
  
Inches separating them, closer than he’d ever stood near her when he had a choice to leave. Bucky holding his stare locking with hers, tension rolling his gut, willing his stomach to stay quiet. Scrambling thoughts desperate searching for the lines he had rehearsed, garbled words and half sentences floating through his memory, dragging the panic forward.  
  
Sokolov taking the small victory, his admission of owing her his second chance with Steve, pressing her advantage, her sarcasm clear to Bucky despite her Russian words, “What do I owe you, Soldat? If you didn’t come here to resume our relationship. Not returning to your home with us, not here to watch the sunrise, no vodka as a gift? Tell me what could I possibly owe you?”  
  
_“How does she win even when she’s losing? A skill you should have learned from her. Excellent setting of limits. Score both sides. Mother: Four. Soldat: Two.”_  
  
His foot slipping sideways, back still pressing to the wall, a start to move away from her caught short by his fledgling grip on his agency, conscious decision to make her move instead, “Take a step back, two steps actually, at least two steps away from me.” A hard-fought effort to project firmness, gaze not faltering, he pointed at a spot a few feet into the cell.  
  
Sokolov’s eyes narrowing a moment, taking him in, a wry smile flirting with her lips, she complied with exaggerated strides, counting aloud, “One and two.” A turn to face him. “What else do I owe you?”  
  
The ache in his chest easing, breath flowing out, Bucky moving to stand weigh swung balanced towards one hip, his body blocking the doorway, building on his momentum, “No more Russian. You know English. Use it.”  
  
Shrugging, her switch to English faltering and thick, “Fine. I will try to...”  
  
“Stop it.” His bark cutting her off.  
  
Another shrug and smile, her amusement not sincere, her English near flawless, “Continue, Soldat or should I say, Soldier? What else must I do for you?”  
  
Bucky shifting his weight, finding the words he’d rehearsed, deep breath diving in, “I need to go back. To Russia. There are things, people I remember, shit you put in my head. Things that happened, I want to fix them, not fix,” shaking his head, close to talking to himself, gaze wandering across green walls, “I can’t fix any of this. I want to stop it from happening anymore.”  
  
“A mission? Intriguing. Independent thought, not always a good thing. Will this be like Boston?” Sokolov’s tone not as cutting or disbelieving.  
  
“No,” Hand running through his hair, “Yes. I mean, I don’t know.” A quick glance towards her growing skeptical gaze. “You and I, no one else.”  
  
_“Lose of a point for piss-poor planning. Mother: Four. Soldat: One.”_  
  
Her faint tone of sarcasm returning, “The two of us? Going against whom? Hydra is scattered. Who is your target?”  
  
Anxiety driving his movements, shifting weight foot to foot, hand carding hair, gaze wandering from her face, glancing across the marks on the wall, a second on the mattress, cold cell reminding him of his days under Hydra’s control. Body settling still wide-stance, eyes focused on the snow-covered landscape he muttered near to inaudible, “The Architect,” held breath waiting for what he knew she’d say.  
  
Her breath a hissing pull, eyes widening a split second, the veil lifting and falling back into place as a curtain on a cold breeze. Staring at him for seconds too long, smoothing hair not out of place. Cold answer, “You really are insane. Too bad. You’re still quite the specimen.” Abrupt turn to cross towards the window, hand gripping a bar, her move a derisive dismissal.  
  
Her assessment not unexpected, he scrambled to counter, “Insane? Highly possible. Doesn’t matter. You owe me this.”  
  
Sokolov spun back to face him, “Why would I do this? Why risk my life for your pathetic, suicide mission?”  
  
Bucky’s anxious steps forward, halting at half the distance, desperate attempt to persuade her, “Because it will be glorious. Your word, the one you said to me a thousand fucking times. Glorious. I’m giving you your choice, your chance.” Pulling in a breath, not wanting to give life to what he thought would happen, knowing the truth of what he was proposing, “Die glorious with me. Or die here slow and cold and forgotten, eating bread and beans and staring at these four putrid green walls for the few years you might have left. Listening to the echoes of your cellmates, watching the snow melt.” A pause to give weight to what he planned to say next, knowing it would cut her, “Forever wondering where I am. Who I’m fucking. Long nights in the dark and cold imagining me and --- the Captain. You stuck here. Alone and cold and surrounded by green.”  
  
The anger crossing her face not hidden, red flush to her skin, her steps a rush to confront him, “You destroyed the hand that fed you,” the mangled flesh of her right hand slapping hard onto his chest.  
  
Bucky caught her wrist with metal fingers, dragging her closer, a lean to grit his words near her face, “You destroyed my life.”  
  
“I glorified your life,” Her spitting answer back, tugging to free the hand crushed by his grip four months earlier, the night they faced off, Bucky saving Steve from her torture.  
  
Metal fingers not letting go, his voice brittle and cracking, “I killed for you. Against my will. That isn’t glory. I am condemned forever because of you.”  
  
Her good hand prying at metal fingers, pulling to free herself from his grip, “The children of Hydra were obedient because of you. Fear and pain, Soldat, you know how this works. You are the bringer of their obedience.”  
  
“Nightmares. I am the bringer of nightmares.” Shaking her hard enough to unbalance her feet, breath catching the sob before she could hear it, ”My nights and days are consumed with their ghosts. Thanks to you.”  
  
Sokolov hung by her wrist tight held in his fist, toes just touching the floor, features defiant, dark eyes glaring. Anger flashing too long of a time for a Widow, a slow deep breath reining herself in, pulling back her emotions, the cold mask returning, “You take medications, don’t you? That should help with those nightmares. Although they don’t seem to help with that Voice in your head. Pity your Captain can’t save you from yourself.”  
  
_“Mother six. Scoring two points this round. One for pissing you off enough to put your hands on her and the second for the snark about the meds. And the Captain. So correction, three points Mother. Total seven. Soldat remains at one.”_  
  
Her words cutting enough, the Voice salt in the wound, internal counting three sets of three, before blurting “Fuck you,” and releasing his hold on her wrist, a turn to leave the cell, he paused at the threshold.  
  
Sokolov stumbling back, rubbing her wrist, shoulder braced to the wall, no words or looks passing between them, tension thick and heavy, shared counting of their heartbeats. Time passing slow, expectant and empty broken by her voice soft muttering “If we are to work together you must do something for me.”  
  
Reluctant half turn of his body, head tilting to pull in her words, hair falling to cover his cheek, he sighed, “Sure, let’s hear it. No promises though.”  
  
A push from the wall to stand straight, right hand tucked into her pocket, quick check of her hair for neatness, “If we are to work together. I wish to have chocolate.”  
  
Bucky turned, his eying of her suspicious, “Okay. I think we can find chocolate.”  
  
Slow steps to approach him, “Good. And vodka.”  
  
Purposeful shake of his head, “I’ll pass on that. But sure I guess so.”  
  
A chin-up, confident stride to end standing next to him, eyes sharp glinting excitement watching the hall beyond her cell, “And blini, I would like blini.”  
  
_“You are so fucked Soldat. She has you by the balls. Mother: Eight. Soldat: One.”_  
  
Bucky sucked in a long deep breath, rolling his eyes and his head, a tight-lipped answer, “O-kay. Sure. Anything else?”  
  
Quick nod without looking at him, “Yes. A gun.”  
  
Answer spoken towards the hallway, “No. Absolutely and categorically no.”  
  
Sokolov nodding, her gaze fixed on the hall, “Fine. As expected. A good move, Soldat. One last thing.”  
  
Bucky staring down at the top of her head, studying the neatness of her hair knot, “No more things.”  
  
Insistent as she stepped past the threshold not looking at the monk standing guard, or glancing back at him, “You must control your language. It is a vulgar, disgusting spewing of filth that I find unacceptable.”  
  
His answer quick and hot, “Or what? You’ll do what? Don’t forget. No stun prod, Mo...”  
  
“Yes.” Her answer just as quick. Gaze taking in the long empty hallway leading to her freedom, a pointed finger towards his inertia in the doorway, “Yes, you will resume calling me Mother.”  
  
Biting the lip he tugged hard into his mouth, “The hell I will.”  
  
A tilt of her head to free the tightness in her neck, shoulders rolling back, eyes sharp focused on the end of her internment, she reiterated, “Language, Soldat, language," as she took her first steps away from the overwhelming green of her world.  
  
Bucky’s eyes narrowing, tight jaw response, still stuck in the doorway, “Fuck language.”  
  
Steps confident and certain, Gieta Sokolov marching down the hall unapologetic and not acknowledging the echoing catcalls from her cellmates, bouncing side to side, swirling through the air passing each locked door, “Fuck –-- language --- Soldat.”  
  
_“Final score. Mother: Eight. Soldat: One. First Match to Mother.”_  
  
A rush to follow her into the hall, caught off-guard by her control, pacing out his frustration, his complaint starting as a mutter, building to a shout, voice squeaking and rasping on every other word, “Fuck language. Fuck the Voice in my head. Fuck working together, we are not working together. Fuck you.” Shaking his head, desperate attempt to shake loose the ringing as the inmates sent up a cackling mock of his epithets. A final relenting muttering, “Fuck you really,” he ran down the hall to catch up with her.  
  
_“This is going much better than planned. Thirty minutes into this family reunion and we are all still alive.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ravencroft Institute for the Criminally Insane is borrowed from the Marvel Earth 616 comic world. It has made appearances is many comics and movies and has had several famous inmates over the course of its comic history. Its comic universe location is New York but for my purposes, in this story, I've transported it magically to the frozen Tundra of Canada. It made its first appearance in Spiderman Unlimited #1 in May 1993. It owes its creation to Ron Lim and Tom DeFalco. Reference: Marvel Wikia
> 
> BLINI: or, sometimes, blin, is a Russian pancake traditionally made from wheat or buckwheat flour and served with smetana (sour cream) quark (a kind of cottage cheese) butter, caviar, and other garnishes. Its roots trace back to ancient Slavic rituals. They are also known as blintzes, crepes or palatschinke. Wikipedia


	15. Roles Reversed

Thoughts racing forward and back, panic scattering logic, ideas forming nebulous and fragile, tossed aside with every tic of a new detail swimming up from his memories. Plans of approach examined and discarded time and again, clock ticking in the back of his brain. Twenty-four hours since leaving Stark’s presence, his hope for a stealth entrance rapidly slipping away with every option that danced across his mind to fall unacceptable from his silent planning.  
  
Bucky sat in the pilot’s seat of the jet, hands on the controls, more for show than being practical, not wanting Sokolov to know he remained at the mercy of Stark’s autopilot. A wry smile hid from her eye, for the lie about his itinerary, sure that Stark knew full well he lied, a fleeting wonder what his counter move would be, Bucky not caring in the end.  
  
_“Only the mission matters, Soldat. Keep moving forward, dragging them with you, bleeding, exhausted, hanging from your body, taking you down, until there are no more steps to be taken.”_  
  
“Well, good morning to you too,” Bucky muttering aloud, quick afterthought to glance towards his companion, head bowed to her chest, seemingly asleep, strapped into a jump-seat near enough to see her movements, not close enough to make his neck hair stand on end. Seconds spent on watching her, feet not meeting the floor, clothing now as he had remembered before he imprisoned her, nondescript and muted colors, more threadbare than she would have worn years before.  
  
A faint shiver for his recollection of strapping her in, their terse exchange replaying.  
  
  
“I cannot do this buckle you have to help with it.” Sokolov pulling the straps in frustration.  
  
Bucky standing back to the bulkhead, clear across the cabin, “No. I am not touching you. Do it yourself. You’re a damn Widow, you can kill people with your toes. No doubt you can buckle a seat-belt by yourself.”  
  
The argument volleying back and forth, spiraling down into childish tit-for-tat, her demonstrating the hand that he maimed, he ranting about the Voice in his head. The stalemate keeping them grounded for fifteen minutes longer than he’d planned.  
  
_“Stark will find your lifeless body here in the Tundra at this rate of speed. Better figure out how to work with her. Oh and Round Two starts with Mother: One. Soldat: Zero.”_  
  
Exhausted compromise finally reached, Sokolov's hands behind her head, eyes averted, feet tucked tight below her seat, Bucky two finger latching the seat-belt to step quickly away as soon as he was done.  
  
  
Deep breath and a sigh, Bucky rolling his shoulders, decision made to pace the cabin, warding off his fatigue trying to remember the last time he slept, the quiet hum of the jet taking its toll. Steps down and back counting internal, thoughts drifting to Steve, fingers searching for comfort in the body marks left by his mouth, hand twisting in his sweater, quick glances towards the Widow checking her status. Slow building ache of missing him, mind hearing echoes of his voice, soft words whispered close in their bed, angry shout as he hung up the phone; tone, and temper not important anything that would take the edge from his regret.  
  
Cold air creeping into his awareness, stiffness embracing his bones, taking the warmth from his skin, ragged breath at the remembrance of the heat of Steve’s body, wrapping around him tight holding through the dreams and pain. Fighting the wish to go home, hoping his bargain with Stark would play out. Steve remaining safe. Stark’s tenacity working in his favor, counting on his need for justice to save him from the fate of his mission.  
  
Fatigue and the cold taking its toll, Bucky dropped in a seat as far from the Widow as space would allow. Shoulders settling against the hard back, body turned from her view, flesh hand tucked between his legs, seeking body warmth, mind slipping too easy to the close-protected dare of imagining it was Steve’s hand.  
  
_“Probably not your best idea, napping while the Widow is fake sleeping. Not to mention pretending that’s Steve cupping your balls. Mother’s going to score big on this one.”_  
  
A muttered, “Knock it off,” feet pulled up, body curling inward, eyes closing, Bucky embraced the drifting off, soft repeating, “Three seconds, just three seconds.”

  
  
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

  
Steve taking solace in the soft material stretching across his chest, heart beating close against the fabric lying beneath his uniform. Bucky’s T-shirt fitting too tight made tighter still by his purposeful deep inhaling breaths, desperate imagining of their bodies pressing skin-to-skin. Serum enhancing all of his senses, flesh prickling warm at Bucky’s ghosted touch, his scent lingering on fingers, beard and clothes. Eyes closed allowance of sensations to wash over him, forced open to face the engulfing green of the Widow’s empty cell.  
  
Natasha’s whisper near his side, “I’m glad he told you about this place.”  
  
“He did.” Answer short and personal, gaze taking in the sparse surroundings, porcelain to chair to mattress, settling on the blood-marked calendar on the wall. “She knew he’d come for her. Didn’t she?”  
  
“Not that simple,” a move to see his face, hand hovering over his arm, not touching, his gaze staying on the wall, “He’s had years of conditioning, a bond gets created, hard to fight that kind of thing.”  
  
“We have a bond. Our bond is stronger.” Words quiet and firm, uncertainty revealed in the clenching of his jaw, “I thought. Maybe I’m wrong?”  
  
Natasha slipping past him, “You’re not wrong, Steve. It is stronger than this,” steps ending to face the marks on the wall.  
  
“Why her and not me then?” Reticent standing in the doorway, unwilling to enter the Widow’s space.  
  
“He needs her.” She turned to face him, her features caring despite the efficient assessment.  
  
Steve forcing his steps across the threshold, senses taking it in, the old woman’s scent, her presence lingering fresh and raw and bitter. Flush of reddened tightness chasing across his skin, hard-hit with the realization that Bucky stood in this very room hours earlier, free choice to return, willingly giving himself back to his handler. Logic falling aside, deep breath pulled in, fleeting thought that he could feel him, taste his mouth, find the scent of his skin hiding beneath the staleness of her cell.  
  
Slight stumble on nothing, head spinning not a common event, Steve settled his unnerving with a hand grasping a bar on the window. Words spoken soft, private and aching, “I thought he needed me.”  
  
Natasha answering anyway, “Not that kind of need.”  
  
Steve fighting to clear his thinking, shift of focus to what lay beyond the window, he studied the harsh reality of Sokolov’s world; barren yard below, red brick wall looming, capped with dark towers, threatening vast expanse of never-ending whiteness. A confession repeated without looking at Natasha, “I told him I was jealous,” wry laugh cut short, “Now this. He runs to her. I made this happen.”  
  
“We’ve been over this. Not true. He’s protecting you.” Natasha crossed to stand beside him, both watching the sun glint across the icy landscape. “You said he’s going after someone called the Architect. He can’t, his role in Hydra, his past, he can’t just walk in there. As much as you boys want to charge head-first, bullets be damned, he knows that will only get him killed. He needs her to accomplish his mission. He’s using her. She’s his way in.” She turned to look up at him, a reach to tuck loose falling hair behind his ear, “You’re thinking with your heart. Gonna have to let that go if we’re going to help him.”  
  
  
Sam’s arrival heralded by the echoing calls in the hallway, pulling their attention towards the door, “Wow, so Barnes really is the asshole I thought he was. The Raft is Cancun compared to this place.” Stepping into the cell, quick glance around, a nod towards Natasha and Steve, “Fury’s aircraft are accounted for, no one in a hundred mile radius of us is missing anything that could get him this far.” His hesitant pulled in breath left hanging.  
  
“And?” Steve reading his pause.  
  
Sharp shake of his head, reluctance evident, Sam finished his report, “Except for the Avengers Facility. A jet was given emergency clearance a few hours after Barnes disappeared. Could be a big coincidence, maybe not. If he stole a jet from Stark, I’ve got a whole new level of respect for him.” Quick point at Natasha to clarify, “Do not tell him I said that.”  
  
Steve’s thoughts playing out across his body, chin raised, shoulders settling back, surprise to worry to anger chasing across his features; his reaction kept physical, hiding the rush of worry that settled in his mind.  
  
Natasha offering a guess at what he was thinking, “He stole a jet from Stark. Or --- Stark helped him. Why?”  
  
Steve turned to stare at the snowy landscape, both hands grasping the bars, forehead laid between his hands, cold metal soothing the not-familiar ache in his head. A ploy to hide his face, keeping the rush of emotion to himself, thoughts racing to imagine the scene, Bucky facing Stark alone. Anxious replaying of their last encounter, Bucky terrified on his knees, Stark’s angry shake of his body, the glow of the thrustor hot on his skin. Grateful for Bucky’s call, confirming he was still free, worry for what he’d done, what price he might be paying for his chance to walk away.  
  
His answer finally muttered, “I don’t know. But I am going to find out.” Quick turn to cross the cell, his stride carrying him pissed off and determined out the door, down the hall, heading for the jet and a call to Tony Stark.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

  
  
Bucky’s sleep brought the dead most nights, voiceless companions, not a threat or frightening, more harbingers of his guilt, cutting a hole in his heart, pulling him from their bed to wander the house silently checking locks three plus three.  
  
Nightmares, his companion in the deepest of sleep, muscles slack in relaxation, mind drifting away, false sense of safety, thoughts dropping his guard. The dreams roaring into existence tearing his limbs from the grip of Steve’s possessive arms, driving the screams that stole his voice raw.  
  
Fitful sleep, the catnaps of a mission or exhaustion, brought him the not long ago memory of Steve’s torture at the mercy of the Widow. Lulling sounds of the jet falling into the background, bright light of the sky slipping aside for the darkness of his mind’s eye. Recollection of that shadowed prison, Steve strapped in a chair, legs and arms splayed out, thigh fractured, bone protruding, dripping red into a pool that crawled across the floor engulfing his feet as he stood frozen still, as dreams will demand.  
  
Few seconds of rest bringing him back to that night, body moving slow-motion, shield heavy in his hand, muddled sounds and thoughts and movements. Head lolling awkward to his right, mind's eye not clearly seeing, memory filling in the image; Steve’s broken body immobile at the mercy of the Widow and her companion. Two figures hovering, one menacing tall, Bucky’s Red Room history returned for vengeance, red-faced laughter as the man twisted Steve’s leg, his screams echoing in the room, forever embedded in Bucky’s heart.  
  
His reach to free Steve thwarted by the dream, the chair moving elusive, always an inch beyond his fingers. Body twitching erratic desperate attempts to touch him, rescue him. Mouth forming words, only guttural sounds stumbling out, rising frustration shaking his head, fingers jumping, some part of his brain telling it’s a dream, fighting to wake, dragged back down to replay what the Widow did to them.  
  
Sokolov’s methods psychological, honed sharp and perfected, her goal to tear them apart. Bucky standing witness. Sepia-toned pictures of his enslavement by Hydra playing out larger than life, his sins projected on the walls of Steve’s cell. Death counts recorded, features impassive, his true-self hiding in the void of his eyes. Bucky’s naked body, hands caressing, not Steve's hands, staccato flashes of his darkest shame projected for Steve’s captive entertainment. Bucky too ashamed to bring it up once all was said and done. Steve too protective to ever mention it. The unspoken sitting between them still.  
  
His dreamscape shifting, the Widow appearing, stun prod in hand, prim-dressed, thin smile, gliding to stop at his feet, right hand on the shield trying to take it, metal fingers covering frail bones, his grip tightening down. Her smile defiant, she drove her weapon into his neck, her voice clear speaking the trigger words, his mind fighting her control, seconds passing suspended facing one another.  
  
Body struggling against the dream’s hold, cold sweat breaking across his chest, whined cry knowing what was coming, fighting to wake before reliving that moment. Sleep not letting him go, the stun prod firing, tearing blinding whiteness through his vision, pain searing his nerves; metal fingers vaguely sensing the breaking of her bones, the jolting memory throwing his body convulsing to the floor.  
  
“Pasha, wake up, you’re dreaming.” Sokolov’s voice wafting through the pain. “Pasha? Wake up.”  
  
_“Soldat. Get your head out of that dream and wake the hell up. She’s about to put her hands on you.”_  
  
“Shit.” Bucky scrambling awkward, hands and feet moving, scooting backward across the floor, away from her voice, her hand reaching out. He pointed a warning when his shoulders crashed into the bulkhead. “Don’t touch me. Stay right there.”  
  
The Widow kneeling where he fell, both hands cupped in her lap, “You were dreaming, Pasha.”  
  
Head shaking, catching his breath, shedding the grogginess of sleep, a half-distracted ask, “What? What did you call me?”  
  
Her tone emphatic falling to possessive, “Pasha. It’s our name.”  
  
Rubbing his neck, shrugging his muscles free of their stiffness, “The hell it is. Don’t call me that. That is not my name.”  
  
Her demureness exaggerated, “It is what I’ve always called you. Don’t you remember?”  
  
Bucky shook his head again, hard swallow finding his words, trying to shed her ownership, “I remember a lot. More than I want to remember so yeah, I remember you using that name.” A bite to his lip, tongue sliding in search of a fading mark left by Steve, “I’m telling you to stop it.”  
  
Confusion evident on her face, “But, it’s ours. Since the beginning of our time together.”  
  
Bucky sitting legs spread wide, attention narrowing down, eyes connecting with the Widow’s, his gritted question, “Our time together?”  
  
“Yes, my child. That is the name I gave you.” Her smile less menacing than he recalled, a hint of her memories faltering.  
  
Bucky uncertain of what he was seeing, not trusting anything she had to say. Feet drawing up, knees close to his chest, brushing the hair from his face, “I am not your fucking child, that is not my fu... damn name. Enough. It is not my name, and you know it.”  
  
Fleeting sadness taking her features, another look not fitting her history, slow shake of her head, “What should I call you then. If not that.” Her fingers picking at a loose thread on her jacket, lost in thought before asking, “Sergeant Barnes?”  
  
Bucky dropped his head back to thump against the wall, eyes closed answer, “No. Not that. My name is Bucky," Waving his hand dismissive, eyes opening and wary, “Nevermind, not that. Barnes. No, just, I don’t know.”  
  
Scrambling to his feet, pacing erratic, stretching his back, nervous energy driving his body to move, “Not that. Call me, just call me --- Shit.”  
  
“Shit? I should call you Shit?” Still kneeling, head tilting a tell of her confusion, her gaze following his boots.  
  
The tone of her question close to genuine, catching him off-guard, blurted laugh spontaneous, pulled back as soon as it happened, retreating to a stern, "Hilarious.”  
  
Bucky pulled in a long breath searching for an answer, “If you have to talk to me, to call me a name,” pacing past her, hard pulling the tangled scrunchie from his hair, “You should call me,” hesitant pause, sigh of frustration, finally settling reluctant and resolute, “Soldat. Call me soldier.”  
  
His steps halting behind her, gaze studying the frail figure appearing smaller than he could ever recall. Bitter guard crumbling to soften, hard to recognize the handler he remembered in the woman kneeling at his feet, sense of pity nudging to take space from his anger.  
  
_“You really are the fool she believes you to be. Mother: Two. Soldat: Zero.”_  
  
His voice falling low, “Soldat. That’s all I am to you.” Conscious effort to hide his own sadness, “A soldier. Nothing more.”  
  
Sokolov nodding emphatic, “Very well, Soldat it shall be.” A pat of her knees ending the debate, her tone turning curious, her gaze scanning the passenger bay, “Right. So, Soldat. Is there food on this jet? Or do you plan on us starving to death before we get to kill the Architect?”  
  
Bucky taken aback, “Was that a joke?” A muttered, ”I don’t remember that about you.”  
  
“I have been told I have a wonderful sense of humor.” A turn of her head to catch a glimpse of him.  
  
Deep breath returning to the reality of their past, “I would not be the one telling you that.”  
  
She nodded, “No. You would not. We never spoke like this.”  
  
Bucky moving to retrieve his backpack, quick check for weapons before dumping the contents out on the floor in front of her. A hesitant step, thinking it through; a final giving in, he dropped to sit cross-legged, the pile of his belongings centered between them. Poking a metal finger through the contents, “Socks, T-shirts, single serving Frosted Flakes, a box of raisins and half a protein bar. That’s it. I travel light.”  
  
Her disappointment evident in her tone and on her face, “This is inadequate resources. I taught you better than that.”  
  
A tilted head response tinged with his own sarcasm, “You starved me as I recall.”  
  
She deflected, “I fed you well at our last collaboration.”  
  
Sharp stop to the gathering of his clothing, sharper look at her face, “Collaboration? You kidnapped me and stuck me damn near naked in a cage. You chained my arm to a beam. You shocked me repeatedly with your favorite behavior modification tool. That’s what you liked to call it, right? That is not my definition of collaboration.”  
  
Sokolov, chin up, staunch defiance, “You forget...”  
  
Bucky cut her off, hard shoving his clothes in the backpack, “My place? No, you forget I’m not your possession anymore. That’s my place, I get to decide if we collaborate. I get to decide what name I go by. I get to decide who eats the Frosted Flakes.”  
  
A deep breath, her scolding clear, “What I was about to say was, you forget --- I freed you from the words in your mind. I put them there. I took them away.”  
  
His movement stopping, sitting quiet, breath held, teeth catching the skin of his cheek, gaze studying this woman kneeling a few feet away from him. Resentment fighting with uncertainty. Painful recollection of her efforts to desensitize his mind, undoing the words that she put there. Tested and proven by her own voice the night he saved Steve. Proof given she made good on her word to free him from their control.  
  
Bucky muttered a begrudging, “You did.” Not fully trusting her, never trusting her, adding, “Seems that way. Right now, seems like it. I hope so.”  
  
Quiet moment of mutual contemplation, taking stock of their tenuous agreement. Bucky studying the hardness still deep within her eyes, pushing aside the new-found glimpse of softness, not fool enough to let his guard down, despite the Voice’s chiding.  
  
She studying with equal suspicion, finding her place to settle in, watching and waiting. A Widow’s most significant asset; patience.  
  
Bucky mulling over his change in fortune, their roles slipping reversed, he taking control, her bowing to his wishes. A fleeting moment of satisfaction quick corrected by his own lecturing voice kept internal, “Don’t be an idiot Barnes.”  
  
The Voice following suit.  
  
_“That’s what she wants you to think. Once a Widow, always a Widow. Mother: Three. Soldat: Zero.”_

  
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

  
“I kinda hate Stark. I mean, just have to throw that out there.” Sam’s muttered commentary broke the heavy aired silence once Steve and Tony ended their terse conversation. A shrug added as he leaned against the bulkhead serving to underscore his point, “He could’ve called you. Report that damn delinquent Barnes to the school principal.”  
  
“Not funny,” Steve pulled in a deep breath, eyes closing to rehash what little he’d learned from calling Stark. Thoughts racing, forward and back, replaying their exchange, not learning much more than he already knew. Their argument over Skype, rapid-fire and hot, as palpable as if they were standing chest-to-chest.  
  
  
Steve opening as soon as Stark’s image appeared on the screen, “You gave him a jet.”  
  
Tony’s quick retort, “Who?”  
  
Equally as quick, “You know who.”  
  
“Oh, your friend. Barnes?” A nonchalant scratch of his head, “Yes, well he said he needed it for a worthy cause. He asked nicely."  
  
Voice barely hiding his anger, “A suicide mission is a worthy cause?”  
  
Stark meeting his anger with snark, “You’re asking the wrong person to care.”  
  
Steve’s jaw twitched seconds longer than Nat or Sam had ever seen.  
  
Eyeing the twitch even through Skype, Tony offered, “I loaned it to him.”  
  
Seconds passing, Steve pressing, “Did he tell you where he was going?”  
  
Stark’s curt answer. “Yes.”  
  
Meeting his curtness, “And?”  
  
Tony cocked his head, “No. He made me swear not to tell you.”  
  
“Funny. I doubt he made you do anything. Tell me anyway.”  
  
“No. That was part of the deal. No tattling.” Stark pushed himself back, his face disappearing from the screen, only the glow of the arc in his chest remaining in the picture. Seconds passing before he leaned close again, features returning, a glimpse of concern, hinting genuine, “Look Rogers. For what it’s worth. He’s actually trying to protect you. That’s what he said anyway.”  
  
Steve reaching reflexive for his hair, a brush from his face, quick echo of Bucky’s fingers raking across his scalp, fight to focus on pushing Stark, “What does he have to give you in return. You didn’t do this for free. He owes you something.”  
  
Tony sat up, back straight, palms flat on the table, words clipped and rapid, “My jet back. One piece, no scratches. Full tank of gas. Clean out the bins, no water bottles left behind. Now. Go home, Rogers. Your man doesn’t want you with him.” A sharp move of his hand to force the screen to go black.

  
  
  
Steve standing eyes closed, long slow breaths steadying, not inert or uncertain, making his plans internal, ticking through all of Bucky’s clues. No answer when Steve pressed if the man was a Russian. White paper with numbers, Natasha’s deciphering, one number certain, a postal code in the heart of Moscow, the others still a mystery. Steve’s worst case scenario now proven, Bucky returning to the Widow, sworn heartfelt promise in the sanctuary of their bed, words intense and desperate, Bucky’s rasping near tearful oath “Never going back to her,” ringing now in Steve’s hearing, chest tightening, gut turning, holding to the hope there was more to his plan.  
  
Natasha’s hand on his arm, stirring him from his thoughts, pulling him to look at her, “We’ve got the postal code, It’s a start. I’ll start scanning every piece of intel we can find, we know he’s heading for Russia, we’ll find him.”  
  
Sam adding from the pilot’s seat, “We spend an inordinate amount of time looking for him. I’d say we should be pretty good at it by now.”

  
  
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

  
  
Head pressed to the cold metal of the bulkhead, a foot rhythmic kicking sets of three against the storage below, Bucky furtive slipped his pills in his mouth, quick sip of the water he’d found. A glance over his shoulder to check on the Widow cross-legged on the floor eating the Frosted Flakes dry one by one.  
  
_“You clearly laid claim to those Flakes, she took them. You let her. Mother...”_  
  
“Yeah, yeah, Mother four, Soldat zero. Give it a rest. I let her. She’s old. I snagged the protein bar.” Not hiding his conversation, not caring at this point. “Too tired to care.”  
  
Dull ache building in his chest spreading fiber to fiber, his heart searching for Steve, pulling his touch from his memory, body missing his heat. Bucky turning his back to the Widow, keeping his memories close, guarding irrational, her taking his mind for seventy years, his fear she could rob him of Steve all over again.  
  
Eyes closing, fingers slipping to rake across his scalp, imagining Steve’s hand tangled in his hair. Panic taking his gut, tongue searching his lips, the taste of him gone by. Memory struggling to find Steve’s voice, clear a few hours earlier, fading with the sound of the jet and the chaotic plans of his mission. His need to hear his voice becoming all-consuming.  
  
“Okay, one more call. Then that’s it.” Bucky muttered aloud, pulling the cell phone from his pocket. Faint tremor in his fingers, two hands to steady his dialing, held breath waiting for the ringing to flow, sharp click of Steve picking up.  
  
“Buck?” Steve’s worry mixed in with being pissed off, “You asshole.”  
  
Laughter uncontrolled, pulled together enough for Bucky to mutter, “Must be my new code name. How’s it going?”  
  
Craving the sound of Steve’s voice, no matter the words, soaking in his frustration, Bucky let his words wash over his hearing, “What? How’s it going?” Grateful to hear his sarcasm, “Tasha, Sam and I are bonding over chasing you, again.” Caught short by his flash of dark pain, “Why her? You promised. You swore in our bed, your word, never go back to her. Why her?”  
  
Bucky scrambling to deflect, “Wow. I can feel those green flecks in your eyes sparkling. I like it." Not able to hide the tremor in his words, "You’re jealous? I never expected that.”  
  
“I am not jealous of her. I want to know why you went  back to her?”  
  
Hands cupping the phone, a glance to check on the Widow, Bucky whispering, “I need her to do this. Simple. She gets me in the door.”  
  
Steve's anger cutting, “Why Stark? Why go to him? What kind of deal did you make?”  
  
Bucky letting seconds pass, a push away from the wall, anxious pacing, not wanting to lie, not wanting to tell him his truth, “He was kind enough to lend me his jet. I just need to get it back to him in one piece. That’s it.”  
  
The challenge painful to hear, “Don't lie to me."  
  
Bucky changing the subject, “You’re in the jet, I can hear that damn rattle that Wilson never fixed. Something tells me you’re trying to follow me.”  
  
Steve’s pacing evident in the ebb and flow of his tone, footfalls distant behind his words, Bucky closing his eyes, steps pausing to drink in every whispered slip of material; his breath, and mood and inflection. Not caring about Steve's anger, faint smile at his irritation, drowning in the ache of wanting to be with him.  
  
“Did you really think that I would go home and pine for you?” Steve raging on, “Sit around watching football waiting for you to drag your sorry ass back in the front door? You actually thought running off without me, I’d just kick back and wait for you to get home?”  
  
Eyes stinging, fighting back his tears, quick glance at the Widow again, her gaze indirect, head tilted in listening, “No. Honestly, I have no idea what I was thinking." Voice dropping to a close-guarded whisper, desperate and pleading, "I just don’t want him, anyone, to hurt you. No one. I have to keep you safe, somehow. Whatever it takes.”  
  
“Not this way.”  
  
“Listen, I was thinking,” Bucky turning his back to Sokolov, pacing resumed, teeth pulling hard at his lip, fighting the tightness claiming his chest, logic washing away in a wave of emotion, “I was thinking about you.” Breath catching, words blurted and choking, “You. Needing you. Damn it.”  
  
Steve commanding, “Where are you?”  
  
Dragging his sleeve to his cheek, Bucky glancing at the Widow again, her eyes locking on his, quick tuck of his head to hide from her gaze, rushed whisper, “I’ve forgotten what day it is. When you asked me the last question, you know the question of the day. I can’t remember when we did that last.”  
  
Steve jumping on his change in direction, “Two days. It’s been two days. You owe me two answers.”  
  
Bucky absent muttering, “I used to be better at this, I’m not very good at this anymore. A mission of my own. I keep calling you.”  
  
“It’s okay to need…”  
  
“Need help?" Rasping laughter, "I definitely need help on a few levels.”  
  
Steve answered, “You finished my sentence.”  
  
Bucky's smirk clear in his voice, “That’s not all I want to finish.”  
  
Soft laughter tearing at Bucky’s heart, “God Buck, I’d love that. I would. What I was trying to say is, it’s okay to need me. To let me help.”  
  
“I do need you. You know that right? Sure you do. So, back to the questions. Two? Are you sure? Are you lying to me, Stevie?”  
  
“No never. Technically a new day, two questions.”  
  
“Okay trusting you." Metal fingers catching Steve's sweater, hanging too loose on his frame, a tug to nestle the yarn soft against his cheek, "Always trusting you. Only you.”  
  
“Good. Here goes. Question one." Deep breath pulled in, Steve's ask expecting the truth, "What are your current coordinates?”  
  
Bucky laughing, “Not fair. Supposed to be about the past, not now.”  
  
“This is about the past. More than ever this is about the past. What are your coordinates?”  
  
“Actually, I was secretly hoping you’d ask that question. Sure. Okay, coordinates.” Bucky crossed to the pilot’s console, fingers clearing the wet blurring his vision, a check of the panel, he muttered, “Texting them right now.” A tremor shaking his hand as he input the data.  
  
Steve’s voice a touch lighter, “Got it. Second question. Buck, are you there?”  
  
“Yup. Here still, here. Is that the second question?”  
  
“No. Come on, stick with me. This is it. Second question. Where are you going? Not the final destination, not asking where the Architect is located. I want to know where to find you when we land.”

"Catching on aren’t you?” Bucky's quick laugh falling away, his tone low and serious, “You can’t be with me. It is not safe. You can't talk to me. Can't touch me. Do you understand?"  
  
“I understand. Answer my question. Now, before I lose you before you change your mind before anything else gets between us.”  
  
Bucky closing his eyes, phone to his ear, Steve’s anxious breath filling his hearing. Memory conjuring him up, body warmth pressing close, fingers taking his skin, finding the places intimate shared. Wanting his possession, keeping him safe. Not thinking only feeling, his voice a low murmur, telling his secret, "Khabarovsk. I'll be in Khabarovsk.”

Bucky slumped to the floor with the ending of their call. Hands cradling bowed head, holding close the urge to sob, guarding his feelings, the Widow’s steps coming near. Minutes to regain his composure, her figure near to touching his shoulder, deliberate waiting. Slow movement to straighten his back, deep breath to settle his thoughts, methodical creation of the compartments in his mind, forever used to protect his sanity, safe place to hide Steve away. Long staring at the phone before he handed it to the Widow, not connecting with her eyes. A muttered, “It’s time.”  
  
A pause before she took it, her voice finding the cold command he'd always known, “When we make this call, Soldat the clock begins to tick for us. They will know we are here. They will come for us. There will be no going back.”  
  
His response resolute, “The clock is always ticking.”  
  
Sokolov nodded her assent, a knowing measured dialing of the phone one number short, she paused, “Perhaps they will kill us as soon as we disembark. Perhaps later. Likely a better, more efficient assassin than yourself will end our time of service."  
  
Bucky slow nodding, "Entirely possible. Maybe my plan isn’t shit. Maybe, just maybe we can get there."  
  
She looked at him sitting at her feet, a final number entered, phone to her ear, she directed him, "Soldat, it is time to disable the autopilot."  
  
Bucky dutiful and obedient, slow crawled beneath the console, quick search and smooth tug with metal fingers, the disengagement of the autopilot lurching the jet, he pulled himself into the pilot’s seat.  
  
Gieta Sokolov, Black Widow, former and now returning handler of the Winter Soldier stepped to take her place to the right of his shoulder, back straight and square, her look losing its frailty, “Roles will be resumed I take it? How else will we get close? You won’t be welcome in your current state of, shall I call it, disarray?”  
  
Hands spread to drag the hair from his face, full tremor sweeping head to toe, no effort to hide it from her now. Conscious search for the coldness pushed aside the day he walked away from Hydra. Bucky's heart sinking deep to embrace his former life, his answer murmured in perfected Russian “I know, Mother, I know.”


	16. Sometimes Plans Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Mother are heading to Russia. Steve is in close pursuit. Plans they are a-changing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Made it! 
> 
> I've never been to Russia so I'm doing a whole lot of research. I've left endnotes, if there are questions or I've completely misrepresented your hometown, please do message me! 
> 
> As always thank you so very much for following along with me and the boys! We love you!

“Yes. Hello, Barnes. Helllooo?” Playful tone turned cutting, anger layered with mocking. The flickering image of Tony Stark hovered inches from Bucky’s temple, pulling a sidelong glance, enough to admire the technology not enough to satisfy the demand for his attention.  
  
_“Too bad you killed his parents. Just think of all the fascinating stuff he’s got in his sandbox.”_  
  
Bucky’s cringe kept hidden, gaze resolute studying the horizon, Stark’s reaction inevitable. A conscious embrace of the coldness needed for a mission, blocking the Voice’s taunt, bracing for Stark’s next move.  
  
Clipped words, terse tone, “That device you just destroyed? My property, my design, state-of-the-art. Light years ahead of that hack at Tesla.”  
  
_“Yet another reference for Steve’s notebook. Tesla? Right up there with the wonders of_ _B_ _erry_ _B_ _lue_ _J_ _ello and the mystery of flavored lubricants.”_  
  
Bucky tilted his head, an effort to shake off the voices, real and internal, he wriggled in the pilot’s seat, ducking to see past Stark’s gliding face.  
  
Tony’s holographic image squinting, “Needless to say, that technology is expensive. You destroyed it. If that wasn’t enough, you broke our deal.”  
  
Stubborn resistance to making eye contact. Emotions tucked deep hidden, tension dispelled in the tapping of his toes, jaw locking tight keeping the tremors at bay, not giving Stark any hint of how his presence made him feel.  
  
Stark adding, finger pointed, “I can see you channeling your inner Winter.” Sitting back, studied assessment, “That vacant stare, slight twitch at your jaw, completely non-verbal, breaking all the cool toys as you go.”  
  
Seconds passing in silence, Tony’s hard stare, sudden lean forward, image near to brushing Bucky’s cheek, the heat of his breath ghosting on his skin. Huffing a laugh before launching, “Here’s what I think. Not that I’ve given you much thought. Maybe when I’m at the dentist’s and the laughing gas hasn’t kicked in I might spend a few seconds on your disgusting existence.” Head tilted, eyes narrowing, “Here’s my theory: Hydra erased your memory, not who you are. Not the man at the core. The killer. That was there before, during and still there today. You are a piece of shit now and forever.”  
  
Bucky’s eyes darting right then left, connecting with Stark’s, falling to the controls, quick locking on the horizon, stumbling effort to hide his agreement. Heated rush of memories, shaking his resolve, nausea flipping his gut pushed down with his struggle to refocus.  
  
Tony’s voice grinding on, words not discernible falling victim to the ringing in Bucky’s ears, bile crawling up his throat, sweat causing his hand to slip as the quinjet lurched with the scattering of his focus. Mind hearing Stark’s indictment building, Bucky not disagreeing, wanting to argue, to defend himself, in the end believing every word of what Tony said as the truth.  
  
Bucky’s own voice counting his shame, heart bearing his guilt, mind recounting his work for redemption, confusion building heat to chase across his skin. Desperate move to break the pain, deliberate reach to drive his metal fist through the floating image of Stark, embedding in the console. “Enough,” guttural growl, sharp turn of his head, meeting Tony’s cold stare, “You think I haven’t...” Bucky stopped short, ragged breath to tuck secret his answer, measured cadence, “Nineteen days, three hours, fifteen minutes, come and get me. I will be right where I told you I’d be. You want me, meet me there.” Slow breath pulled in, harsh final statement, “In the meantime, get the fuck out of my mission.”  
  
Tony’s image disappearing, mouth open to speak, hand raised in protest, Bucky glanced down to see his own hand flat-palmed on the communications switch. Breath let out long and slow, head falling back to the seat, relief pushing fatigue through his body.

  
  
Turbulence rocking their stability, Bucky jarred in the seat, as he wrestled with the controls. Thoughts wandering to the satisfying imaginings that Stark was somewhere in Upstate New York wildly gesturing as they grappled with one another over the jet’s flight pattern.  
  
Sokolov, feet wide-spread riding it out, stance firm, body swaying with every bounce and dip, the picture of stubborn defiance. A furtive glance to take her in, Bucky’s loose and tangential impression that she reminded him of a character in a book he’d once read about a captain going down with the ship. Quick shiver at the parallel, he abandoned the struggle to recall the title.  
  
Focus shifting to her face, cold eyes staring straight ahead watching the approaching land, tension evident in the lines of her features. Darting look over his shoulder following her arm out-stretched, white-knuckle grip of the pilot’s seat, an inch too close to his shoulder. Her Cyrillic words distant in his hearing, “We have clearance from the tower at Tsentral’nyy, our contacts will be there, expecting our complete cooperation.”  
  
Bucky shaking his head, gaze shifting to the distance, thoughts racing methodical, desperate search for something other than surrender. Maneuvering the quinjet to tease the ocean surface, water rippling from their passing. Gaze darting from horizon to radar, expecting Russian interception, heart hoping to see the blip of Steve’s presence following in his wake.  
  
Sokolov’s directions grating his nerves, “You will follow my lead. We will need to give them more than one reason to keep us alive. Do not fight them, whatever they do. I will not allow irreparable damage. You will trust me.” Her words giving life to his panic, flashed scenes of her protection in the past, wry smile at his pain, faint nod for dark figures to continue his torture, begging gray eyes following her back as she walked away from his screams.  
  
Controls vibrating erratic under his palms, pulling him from the past. Bucky forcing his own steadiness to weave their course graceful side to side, buying Steve time, still moving forward, facing his fate, land looming closer with every passing second. Plans clicking into place in his mind, doors opening to the memories he’d tucked secret as Steve filled his life. Darkened snapshots of locations, resources hidden years earlier, mission directives garbled and aborted. Stern-faced handlers passing one to the next, their names irrelevant, all rising through his inner vision, pushed aside by his refocus.  
  
“Your pathetic attempts at revenge in Boston were nothing more than a nuisance to Hydra. Nevertheless, your escapade cost them time and money. They will need some kind of retribution. This is the hand I will play. You will be contrite, obedient, you will submit. You will give them all that they ask.” Her fingers tightening on the seat, feet stumbling to stay upright at Bucky’s purposeful jerk of the controls, his unspoken response to her commands. Dry assessment once she righted herself, “The Captain’s soft touch has eroded your skills.”  
  
Bucky’s muttered response, “Actually he’s taught me a couple of new ones. You wanna hear about them?”  
  
Sokolov undaunted, “Our superiors will be quite pleased with my gift. This jet. The Winter Soldier’s return. Your memories. All that you now know about the Captain, Stark, the Avengers. Given your cooperation, I will be greatly rewarded for my resourcefulness.”  
  
“Yup. You are resourceful, I’ll give you that,” Bucky biting a bruise to his lip.  
  
“We will not push to see the Architect. That will bring suspicion. We will bide our time,” deformed fingers tugging to straighten her jacket. “Your skill was never as a spy, never patience, subtlety; your skills were, at one time, direct, uncompromising, killing. This mission calls for finesse, not brute force.” An emphatic nod, agreeing with herself, no shift of her gaze to engage him.  
  
Hot flush across his cheeks, Bucky’s anger showing on his skin, head turning slow to watch her monologue spoken towards the horizon. Words forming kept internal, their argument playing out in his head, hard fought to keep from blurting his defense.  
  
_“A glimmer of restraint. So you are capable of a modicum of self-control. Soldat one-half point. Mother remains at four.”_  
  
Gaze returning to shift between the radar and the sky, low sweeping arc left to right to left, Bucky stalling their approach. Lowering wing flaps, slowing their speed, anxious scanning the clouded skies, holding his breath, waiting for Steve.

  
  
<<<<<<<<

  
  
  
“Maybe he lied.” Sam’s caustic assessment drawing chastising glances from both Steve and Natasha. “Sorry, I know you two have faith in him, but he’s with you know who.”  
  
Deep breath pulled in, muttered words firm “He didn’t lie,” Steve keeping his focus, piloting their jet, eye darting from radar to sky and back again. Quick check of the coordinates that Bucky had texted, reassuring himself they were still on track. Deep fears pushed aside, the chance of a lie meant to protect, clinging to the hope that Bucky would relent, accepting his help. Chest tightening with every passing second without the hint of his trail. Heart sinking kept to himself.  
  
“I’ve got a good idea of where he’s heading in Moscow, Steve. We have that at least, even if we can’t catch up to him now.” Natasha’s attempt at reassurance as she stood at his side, not settling in his hearing.  
  
Sam offering as he slipped into the co-pilot’s seat, “Every algorithm we’ve run on those numbers he left is coming up a blank except that address. The others aren’t even divisible by three. I don’t know if that makes them real or a bunch of gibberish.”  
  
His tone hesitant, a side-long look towards Steve, “For all we know that Widow has used those trigger words. He might not even be Barnes by now. As much as being Barnes constitutes being an obnoxious, truck-wrecking, bathroom-hogging, pain-in-the-ass, I’ll admit it to the two of you. Just the two of you. It would be a damn shame after all he’s been through.”  
  
Steve searching memories, Bucky telling his secrets in the dark of their room. Body recalling the feel of him tucked close, sitting on the floor back to the wall, arms and legs tangled surrounding. His recounting of Steve’s rescue a reverberating whisper against his chest. Bucky’s voice full of uncertainty telling of how the trigger words seemed to loosen their hold, because of the Widow. Steve holding him tighter when the fear took his hope, not saying what he was thinking, finding it all too hard to believe, that the Widow might undo her own work.  
  
Fingers rolling tip to tip, searching memory for the feel of his skin, the soft of his hair, Steve pushing down the hint of anxiety catching his breath, distracted from his thoughts by the soft repetitive ping of the radar.  
  
Natasha looking over his shoulder, “Steve, did you see that?”  
  
Attention pulled in, studying the screen, gaze bounding from sky to radar and back again. Faint ping coming louder, clouded sky blocking his vision, faint movement finally detected by the grace of the serum. Steve breathing a sigh, tense shoulders visible releasing, daring the faintest of smiles, “There, over there. I got him.”

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

  
  
  
Sharp sound of the radar, catching their attention, Bucky sitting forward, straining to take in all angles of the sky visible from the cockpit, searching for their quinjet. Anxious excitement, muttering, “Steve,” not well hidden from the Widow’s keen watch.  
  
“Yes, the Captain. Of course. He is following us.” Sokolov’s curt observation slipping past his attention.  
  
Bucky’s reactive reach for the comm, a need to hear Steve’s voice, cut short by the Widow’s grab of his hair, yanking him back to the seat. Her voice hissing in his ear “No communication. I did not give you permission to speak to him.”  
  
Frozen by the ingrained sense of his misstep, scalp aching, her breath too close to his cheek.  
  
_“You will forever be her possession.”_  
  
Fighting her hold on his mind, sudden twisting move of his head, deliberate pull forward, pressured against her grip, pain shooting across his scalp. Hair caught in her hand, some slipping from her fingers, some tearing from his head. Pulling himself free.  
  
Voice tight holding his anger mixed with defiance. A side-long look, not willing to satisfy her need for his full attention, daring a growled warning, “I do not need your permission to do a damn thing.”  
  
Sokolov’s gaze narrowing, breath taken to argue, held back for a change of tactic, “Our contacts will be monitoring your communications. They’ll know of his approach as well. I am merely keeping him safe.”  
  
_“Rather inconvenient when she’s right. Mother: Five. Soldat: One-half.”_  
  
Deep, steadying breath, Bucky turned to search the sky, anxious scanning to settle on a faint darkened spot in the distance fast approaching. Guarded sigh of relief, faith holding that it was Steve, adjusting controls to dip from their hover and speed towards the land. Quick gliding low to the ground, nausea twisting in his gut with each passing second closer to their goal.  
  
Slipping below radar’s reach, skimming the ground, livestock scattering at his approach, wind shear rocking the flight, vibrations tearing the hull. His purposeful wild ride forcing Sokolov to stagger to a seat, strapping herself in to weather their final approach.  
  
Her shout above the rattling din, “Your flying too low, we are miles from the airport, Soldat. Pull up, our deaths will be pointless.”  
  
Bucky pushing the speed, head falling back to the seat, letting the shake of the jet take his body, racing to his dreaded rendezvous. Thoughts grasping desperate to Steve, ghosted hands pressed to his chest, tongue finding his taste locked in his memory, mind searching for his voice. Eyes closing to allow the waking dream to drift across his inner vision, breathing deep to gather the last of his scent, fingers tugging the sweater to his face.  
  
_“We’ve been to this region before. Remember. Soft touch, warmth settling in your belly, horrible smell. Still, better than most of your holding cells. Chistopole.”_  
  
Vague memories coming clearer, secondary plan forming even as the radio crackled with the sound of sharp Russian words, relaying their landing instructions. Bucky not startled, thoughts racing to calculate their change in direction, pulling memories forward. Abrupt eyes open, hard turn to the left, rocking the jet, backpack thumping loose, clattering of gear. Wingtip grazing, burnt line searing the earth, fighting the shear to pull from its forward motion, nausea-inducing halt to settle in a hover.  
  
The Widow’s voice cracking, “Soldat. You are an idiot. What are you doing?”  
  
Darting glance towards where she sat, face paler than seconds earlier, hand clutching her stomach. Half smile for recognizing what she was feeling. Answer muttered for himself, not caring what she thought, “Change in plans.”  
  
_“Finely executed. Gain of one for the new plan. And one for making her vomit in her mouth. Mother: Five. Soldat: Two and one-half.”_  
  
Bucky studied the landscape, memories flooding in. Time spent as the Soldier, faceless handlers leading. Secrets hidden away, men long dead locking him in the shadows. One cell equaling all the others; except this one.  
  
Recall flooding senses, soft sounds, living creatures sharing his space, warm breath teasing metal fingers extended apprehensive, seeking connection, welcomed without judgment.  
  
Sweet smell of cut hay, rhythmic clip of hooves, time frame lost. Intimate nickered greetings flowing stall to stall as his stride slowed each night being lead down the aisle, letting the sounds wash over him.  
  
Rough hands pushing his reluctant progress, body chained in place, door slammed, food tossed in the hay, his night plunged into darkness. The Soldier’s careful dare to reach a finger through the grate, tenuous hope for a warm embrace. Soft skin pressed seeking his touch, breath blown hot to his skin, velveted muzzle tickling metal sensors, whispered greetings shared, not alone.  
  
Bucky lost in a memory standing out from all others, his plan taking form, slow fire of satisfaction as he scanned the horse farm spread out below the jet. Long low red brick of a stable, paddocks and pens, snow-covered now, outline still visible. Scattered moving dots beyond where he aimed, dark browns, blacks, and whites, cautious maneuvers to keep from spooking the horses. Heart lightening at the memory of sharing their stalls, dared fondness interrupted by the Voice’s reminder.  
  
_“Target acquired.”_  
  
Lips forming a crooked smirk, pushing the jet into a dive heading straight for the ground.  
  
Sokolov’s voice cracking with her scream, “Soldat, pull up. Damn it, you’re going to kill us. Pull up!”  
  
Last second leveling to drive the jet nose-first slamming hard into the soft give of the earthen pile. Bucky thrown forward, head bouncing against the console, sharp pain as restraints captured his body. Hands propelled forward, wrenching ache to flesh wrist, metal sensors screaming a warning hot up his arm, to chase across his shoulder. Warm liquid trickling to sting eyesight dull, wetting the hair that fell across his face, darkness engulfing with the burying of the jet.  
  
Faint groan distant in his hearing, the Widow near awake, pulling him from his stunned collapse against the controls. Lying sprawled forward, letting the pain reach its peak, knowing it would wane, history repeating itself. The Widow’s low moan mixing with the creak and hiss of the jet, engines straining against the earth surrounding them. His hand blind reaching to shut them down, ears ringing with the silence and the throbbing in his head.  
  
Hand shaking, Bucky reached to wipe the blood from his eyes, dragging the hair from his face, blinking vision clear. Every fiber aching from the torque of the landing, seconds spent to take an accounting of his limbs.  
  
_“All present accounted for, and unbroken. Depending on your intent. That was a spectacular landing, or you need your license revoked.”_  
  
“Very funny. Completely intended. Thank you.” A slowed struggle to free himself from the seatbelt, quicker move to get to Sokolov, harsh tug to pull her free, two metal fingers snagging her jacket, a gathering of his backpack, he dragged her stumbling beside him to the exit ramp.  
  
Closed fist firm applied to the latch, the ramp creaking its protest, “If I calculated that correctly, our ass-end is still in the open.”  
  
_“Your ass-end is always in the open, Soldat.”_

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

  
  
  
  
Heartbeats pounding chest to throat to temple, Steve chasing Bucky. Breathing ragged and deep, footfalls dull thump on hard ground, slipping errant on iced snow, racing full speed to stumble slow into the low slung building.  
  
Run falling to a walk, fast-paced on brick pavers, steps dancing left and right navigating people. Feet shuffling to a stop, eyes straining for a glimpse; flash of long hair, backpack, his jacket. Rush forward to close the gap, bright jump of color, familiar and cherished, Bucky wearing his sweater, daring to peek beneath a sleeve, the bottom of his jacket. Heart hurting with each teasing hint of a view, quick disappearing before his hand could reach him.  
  
Gut turning over, skin flushing heat, catching a hint of him not far ahead. Fast walking the center aisle of the barn, dodging children, ducking the cross-tied horses, cautious hurry, chest tightening with every second lost. Gaze intent looking forward, faint glimpse of dark hair, fingers desperate reaching out, hope to connect falling to disappointment when he captured a stranger. “Sorry, sorry,” mumbled, words not understood, appeasing gestures accepted.  
  
Steve staggering across the threshold, end of the barn, sneakers skidding to a halt, empty space wide open, no hint of Bucky showing. Deep catching breath, eyes searching, serum enhancement not serving him well. Hand to his ear, inspiration ragged not hiding his pain, “Tasha, Sam anything?”  
  
Natasha’s quiet answer in his ear, “Nothing here at the entrance.”  
  
Sam adding as he settled by his side, “I’ve got nothing.”  
  
Letting eyes close, stealing seconds, picturing what he knew he saw minutes earlier, Bucky walking quick steps, not running ahead of him, half glance back, their eyes connecting, sure of his recognition. Steve’s hand raised, calling his name, Bucky turning away pushing forward, driving the Widow stumbling ahead of him.  
  
“He saw me. I know he saw me.” Steve running a hand through his hair, steps taking him in a circle, eyes raking the landscape, sure he’d find him nearby. Mind hoping the gaze that connected with his own minutes earlier had been a stranger, heart knowing without a doubt it was Bucky.  
  
Natasha joining them, “He doesn’t want to be seen with you. It isn’t safe for you or him. We’re lucky to be this close.”  
  
Sam offered, “Not that lucky. Did you see what he did to Stark’s jet? That’s gonna be hard to explain.”

  
  
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

  
  
  
“You’re an idiot, Soldat.” Sokolov’s biting remarks hissed low beneath the hover of Bucky’s metal fingers, close but not touching her mouth. “They’ll find that jet. A dungheap? You buried that jet in a dungheap. Fool.”  
  
Sharp ache spreading across his chest, delving deep to wrap tight pain around his heart, watching Steve standing in the open, gaze frantic searching. Bucky wanting to step from his hiding place, shove the Widow to the ground, stride purposeful and direct towards Steve, damn the prying eyes. Fuck the remnants of Hydra he was sure were on their way, realization hitting them, he’d pulled out of their deal.  
  
Staggered step forward, the pull of Steve so close, spurring him on, a slip from behind the shed, out in the open, hand pinning the Widow to the building, breath pulled in, near to calling his name.  
  
_“If they catch you. They’ll kill him. Remember why we did this? Cut him up in a thousand pieces and feed him to you and the dogs. If you must be a weakling and have him close, better to let him chase you from a distance.”_  
  
Steps caught in a stumble, heart pulling him forward, logic forcing him back, reluctant retreat to hide behind his cover. Gaze still locking on Steve through the mismatched planks of the shed, scattered glimpses of his jacket, blond hair unkempt. A sigh of relief that he’d ditched the uniform for street clothes muttered commentary “No sense sticking out like a sore thumb, Rogers.” Bucky dropping his head to rest against the wood of the shed, eyes closing to steal three seconds of rest.  
  
Decision made, single metal fingertip poking Sokolov, moving her forward. Bucky slow following shuffled pause, resolve urging his walking away, heart needing one last look over his shoulder, studying Steve. Body feeling his hands slipping across his skin, arms telling of his safety, eyes offering unwavering acceptance. Not wanting to leave, believing he had no choice.  
  
Quick steps, not running, head down, hood tugged to cover his hair, forcing the Widow ahead, gaze scanning the ground knowing his goal. A stop at the water pump, heel to the pipe, measured strides counting muttered, sets of three, a halt when he reached six sets.  
  
"Sit right there." Eyes connecting with the Widow, deliberate point at the ground three steps away, her stance defiant refusing to follow his demand. Head tilting to take her in, his eyes a narrowing cold, “Sit. Down.”  
  
Seconds passing long enough to irritate, her feet shuffling a half step, relenting. Dropping to her knees, a curt nod giving him nothing.  
  
Feet kicking aside hardened snow, uncovering concrete. A fall to his knees to dig with metal fingers, quick glance to check on Sokolov. Hand hitting a metal handle, breath pulled in for a pause. Fingers tightening, a rise to his feet, hard straining to tear the cover free.  
  
Standing head bowed, staring long and hard into the dark muck of a septic tank. Holding his breath to let the stench settle in his nostrils. Stomach rolling more at the thought of his next move than the wafting steamed odor hitting cold air.  
  
Back to his knees, tentative reach pulling short. Conscious effort to close the doors in his mind, the ones connecting to Steve, his life away from Hydra. Hard attempt to find the coldness that filled the Soldier’s life.  
  
Heavy sigh as flesh fingers, shaking and uncertain pulled at the zipper of his jacket. Moving quicker with each passing second, stripping it away, backpack hitting the ground, tugging the sweater over his head, tossed close to his feet. A ragged breath pulled in, determined dive forward to sprawl across the concrete base to shove his metal hand deep into the putrid fluid.  
_  
“Although it’s never a good time to puke, this might be a justifiable reason to puke. Much better than anxiety or too many visits to the shrimp bar.”_  
  
Loud groan as much for the circumstances as it was for the Voice. Bucky’s fingers quick searching walls and ledges. Breath staccato and shallow, face turned away, hoping what he sought was still there.  
  
“Fuck, come on. It’s gotta be here. No one in their right mind would dig this out except me.” Muttering aloud, cursory glance at the Widow, her kneeling contemplation of his depravity evident in the wide of her eyes and tight line formed by her mouth.  
  
Her studying gaze feeding his paranoia, “What are you looking at?”  
  
Closing his eyes, not wanting to see the look on Sokolov’s face, shutting out the bright of the day. Memory searching back, hoping a neuron or two would fire to help him find the package with the least amount of time spent stirring up the muck.  
  
Hand sliding cautious and methodical following bumpy contours, the perimeter exam near to complete, low groan of frustration as his fingers arrived where he started. Head dropping to press against the snow. “Do not make me get in there. Please do not make me do that,” words spoken to no one in particular.  
  
Eyes opened, reluctant crawl to his kneels, steadying breath, pulling himself closer, dread filling his thoughts. A scramble to drop his feet inside the tank caught short by his change in angle. The light glinting dull on a plastic wrapped package tucked in a basket against the North wall of the tank, just beyond the reach of his exam. Seconds passing to let relief roll across his mind, fists clenching, one word a hissed whisper, “Yes.”  
  
  
  
Tugging the cover back into place, flesh hand grabbing his belongings, metal fingers clutching the package. A turn to face the Widow now standing, Bucky caught short. Her look of disdain drawing a hot flush of red to chase across his cheeks, “What? What are you looking at?”  
  
Dark eyes not hiding her thoughts. Familiar coldness a look he’d grown to expect, hard judgments for his mistakes, perverse enjoyment of his pain. Even her softness carried a pity that made him feel small. This look he faced now feeling different, her mouth pulled tight, nose crinkled, eyes raking judgmental following the drip of dark liquid as it trickled down the metal of his arm to fall splattered on his boot.  
  
Heart sudden pounding in his chest, Bucky shuffled his feet, a glance towards his hand, gut turning embarrassed; never caring as the Soldier, missing the coldness now. Awkwardness morphing to anger, voice low and cracking, “You’re disgusted. Is that it? I disgust you?”  
  
The Widow waving a dismissive hand, “Foul, you smell foul.” Steps taken to widen the space between them, finger sharp pointed to his arm, “You must wash that immediately.”  
  
Bucky’s steps to follow held up when she raised a stopping hand. Letting seconds pass facing her upturned palm, obedient to their history. Cold wind catching his hair, forcing the shiver that broke him from his stare.  
  
“This?” Arm extended holding the parcel, staggered step following her retreat, voice gaining strength, “This is your idea. You taught me this.”  
  
Sokolov backing quicker, hands raised, disgust giving way to horror as he pressed closer with every stride. “I made you ruthless, not pathetic.” Defiant words ending in a grunt when her back hard collided with the brick of the stable.  
  
Bucky’s darting pace foot slipping in the snow, with each erratic step, “You turn your nose up at how I do things?” Raising the parcel to hover an inch from her face, “You think this shit is the worst thing I’ve had on my hands?”  
  
Cold air stinging the heat flushing his skin, quick pacing tight line inches from her feet, anger sparring with shame. “I killed for you. Do you know what blood looks like caked between the grooves of my hand?” Sharp turn, jerked footsteps, close looming over her, long hair tremored and soiled brushing her skin, low growled words each syllable drawn out, “Blood you wanted. And now you look, like that, at me?”  
  
Sokolov’s face turned away, cheek taking the brunt of his words, full minute passing, deep breath, head tilting back to rest against the wall. A dare to look up and meet his glare inches apart features cold, “You are an unruly child. Needing discipline. You are drawing attention to us, exactly what we do not need.”  
  
Bucky swallowing hard, a tremor slipping across exposed skin, fingers tightening on the sweater and jacket in his hand, matching her cold stare.  
  
_“I am the bringer of bad news. Mother: Six...”_  
  
Slow shake of his head, gritted response, “Shut up. Both of you. Just shut up.” Bucky’s raised arm dripping muck from the parcel, pointing towards the far end of the stable, clear directive unwavering, hearing the Soldier in his tone, “Move. No argument. Move.” Sokolov offering an assenting nod, he followed in her footsteps along the length of the wall.

  
  
<<<<<<<<<<<<

  
  
  
Slamming wooden door, Bucky’s foot connecting, rattle sound echoing in the ceramic-walled room. “Get out,” menacing guttural growl startled occupants, conversations stopping mid-sentence, no one moving.  
  
The Widow gliding silent past Bucky’s erratic pacing. Settling shoulders braced in the corner, deformed hand wrapped discreet by her palm, watching him unravel, thin line of a smile revealing.  
  
Staggered steps attempting a path to the sink, scattering boys, men daring to stand firm. Transfixed by the sight of Bucky’s metal arm, flexing fist, missing the wild gaze edging anger telling them to scatter. Breaths coming hard and fast, panic teasing the surface, the muck soaked package tossed in one sink; coat, sweater, and backpack dropped at his feet. Tremors taking his hand as he reached to turn on the water.  
  
Hard eyes watching, bodies unmoved by his warning, presence creeping to awareness, rapt staring at his metal arm. Bucky demanding loud again, “I said get out.”  
  
No one moving, still staring, more curious than afraid.  
  
Steadying hands resting on sink’s edge, head bowed, hair tumultuous hiding his face. Voice rising angered and cracking to echo hard against the tiles, “Get the fuck out of here. Now.”  
  
Sokolov’s soft Cyrillic hard to hear under the pounding in his ears, her words laced with derision, “They don’t understand you. English, you’re speaking English.”  
  
Bucky shaking his head, fighting to keep control, rolling a shoulder to turn towards the group, “Get the fuck out of here, now,” Russian words growled coherent, threatening steps in their direction, getting him what he wanted, the men rushing to leave.  
  
Metal fingers spread wide on the porcelain, steadying grip on the handle, head spinning, vision slipping darker. Wandering thoughts of when he’d eaten, hard to recall the last water taken, memory clear on taking his meds.  
  
Forced breaths pulled in deep and long and slow, gaze falling lost to dark iron-colored swirls staining white porcelain, mind struggling to find calmness. Deliberate, measured effort, fingers to spigot, slow turn to make the water flow.  
  
“You’re a fool, Soldat.” Sokolov’s words spit and cutting, invading reminder that she was still there. Her move towards the door blocked by Bucky’s quick steps driving her back, “They will call the police. You and I will be arrested, questioned and disappeared. You will never reach The Architect this way. I should have never trusted you.”  
  
“Stop talking.” Steps towards the sink, doubled back facing her again, “Trust? This,” a finger pointed to include them both, “This has nothing to do with trust. I told you. You owe me. And you will pay up.”  
  
Staggered step back to the sink, hands bracing the porcelain, watching the bowl fill with the water. Soap desperate spilling on metal, hands rubbing together, slow and methodical first pass, growing rougher. Fingers digging between metal plates, scrubbing obsessive, metal and flesh colliding harder, arm immersed, water spilling to the floor.  
  
Images flashing forward, taking his thoughts, long nights after missions, pulling the aftermath from his arm, men’s hands on the metal, clearing the evidence of his work. Body sitting passive, allowing their touch; most nights ending uneventful; dark memories teasing his awareness, men hanging back, taking more than the flesh embedded in the grooves of his arm.  
  
Bile rising in his throat, ghosted hands, pressured touch recalled by the skin of his back, the sounds and feel of grunted breaths dragging sweat to his neck; his shiver weakening muscles, taking him to his knees.  
  
Hands still immersed in the water, scrubbing frantic, vibranium not affected, flesh giving in, metal fingertips gouging lines, skin morphing white, then dark, springing red. Bucky, eyes closed, letting the dreams take him, forehead pressing the cold of the sink, hands scrubbing flesh raw, metal uncaring. Vague knowing the guilt would never wash away, pressured sob building in his chest, taking his throat, his air, demanding release. Bucky stopped moving, breath held, desperate desire to hide his tears from the Widow.  
  
  
A quiet shuffled click of the door opening behind him, hearing not lost in his struggle, senses alerting the impending threat.  
  
Flesh hand moving cautious and hidden to wrap around the gun tucked at the front of his pants. Breathing out slow, focus narrowing, taking stock of the sound and smell and tastes in the air surrounding.  
  
Only movement of his body faint tremor shaking hair hanging long to cover his face. Back still turned to the door, head pressing the sink, mind shutting down to do the one thing he’d need to survive.  
  
Seconds passing expectant in silence, gun slow drawn clear, finger’s caress of the trigger. Mind’s eye creating his move, shoulder dropping, roll back, gun raised from his knees, fire until all bullets are gone. Hope for split seconds to grab the backpack, leave the Widow, head for the window.  
  
Decision made, faint twitch of his shoulder caught short by one word.  
  
  
  
“Buck?”  
  
Steve’s voice lilting soft, an echo in the room, more warmth embedded in his tone than Bucky had felt ever in his lifetime.  
  
Not able to move, tremor chasing head to knees, Bucky closing his eyes unable to fight the weight of his fatigue, afraid to believe his hearing. The shudder pushing his metal arm to slide in the wet of the sink.  
  
“It’s me. Steve. It’s okay,” voice whispered loud enough for him to hear. Tentative steps approaching, one foot nudging Bucky’s shin, slipping in the wet of the floor.  
  
“Don't touch me,” rolling his metal shoulder, pulling from the chance of Steve’s touch, not turning around, face kept hidden, forehead pressed to the cold of the sink.  
  
“Yup I know. Not touching you.” Steve’s words not matching his actions, feet settling left then right, Bucky watching his sneakers nestle closer. Warmth spreading in his gut with Steve’s drop to his knees, tucking him in, pressured hold tightening shin-to-shin.  
  
“You can’t be here you can’t be with me.” Bucky head down, words directed towards the floor, faint jerk of his body flinching from the touch anticipated. Body wanting to fall back into his arms, mind telling him not to give in, senses reminding that the Widow stood a few feet away.  
  
Steve unrelenting, “I’m not here. I was hoping to take a leak, but I walked in and what a coincidence, here you are.” One hand light placed on his metal shoulder, the other a slow, cautious stroke of his hair.  
  
Head tilting, words not matching, Bucky leaned to follow Steve’s caress, “No don’t touch me. You have no idea. None. So just let go right now.”  
  
Steve’s hand slipping careful, slow caress of Bucky’s metal arm, palm spreading possessive over the back of his hand. “Yup, I get it.” Chest pressing to Bucky’s back, beard prickling his ear, whispered promise, “Know what? I don’t care.” Steve digging fingers between rigid metal, the hold on the sink giving way to his touch, hands wrapping together falling into a tight embrace.  
  
Bucky’s near turn to see Steve, temple raking beard, words sincere, “No really. My hand. I reached in the septic to get the passports, the money. Hidden years ago. Hydra shit. Still there. I knew it. They must never clean that thing.”  
  
Soft caress holding a sudden stillness, “You stuck your hand in the septic tank. And you let me touch it?” Teasing evident in Steve’s tone.  
  
Subtle roll of his ass, bumping reminder, “No. I told you. You ignored me. As usual. Steven, I-know-better-than-you-Barnes, Rogers.”  
  
Steve’s laugh blew warm on Bucky’s cheek, “Barnes-Rogers? I like the sound of that.”  
  
“What the fuck?” His squirm to make eye contact, held off when Steve hard pulled him closer.  
  
Voice muffled pressing close against Bucky’s hair, Steve’s aching clear, “Come home. Give this up, please. I can’t lose you.”  
  
Metal fingers tightening their grip on flesh, “Too late now. They know we’re here we called them. We were supposed to meet them at an airstrip nearby. I backed out. They’ll come for us." Short laugh, high-pitched, pulled back, “Anyway, I can’t go back. Look at the jet.”  
  
Steve pulling entangled fingers, arms wrapping Bucky’s chest, a hand slipping to gentle caress the healing cut on his forehead. Hard tug chest to back, soft fingers exploring the wound, the frown clear in his voice, “Yeah we saw. You flew the jet into a dungheap. Funny.”  
  
Eyes closed, leaning back, Bucky taking the rush of heat from the closeness of Steve’s body, “Yeah. No one will look for it there.”  
  
Words spoken against his neck, “You know they have a cloaking mechanism right?” Lips pressed a following kiss.  
  
Head giving under Steve’s pull, neck opening, offering his skin, “Right. I forgot.” Teeth nipping thin pinch of his flesh, drawing the mark, guarded hiss of his approval. Gut clenching heat with Steve’s whisper to the bruise, “Liar.”

Steve cupping Bucky’s jaw, turning his face, needing to see his eyes. Their argument days before, constant companion in his search, replaying louder now with Bucky in his arms. “I’m sorry. What I said. I’m an idiot,” words cut off by Bucky’s mouth, lips gentle pressed to his own.  
  
Softest of sighs vibrating against his mouth, taking caution from his thoughts, Steve deepening the kiss. Tongue teasing Bucky’s lips to part, slow exploration, taking his taste, savoring every second, each caressing excursion, wanting this to last forever. Bucky’s faint whimper, driving a tighter hold across his chest, hand fisting in his hair, pulling a sudden shiver from his body.  
  
Huffed curt laugh intruding, Steve opening his eyes, mouth still pressed to Bucky’s lips, his gaze taking in the room, coming to a halt on the small figure tucked in the corner. Dark eyes meeting his, more than coldness projected, Gieta Sokolov, stood watching their embrace, her smile nowhere near benevolent.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much research!  
> Chistopole: Real place near Khabarovsk: horse-racing complex  
> Конно-спортивный комплекс "Станица Чистополье" has a great Instagram account, rental horses, riding trails, indoor and outdoor arenas apparently.  
> Tesla: Company that has a prototype for autopiloted cars; it's not working out so well. Wikipedia  
> Tsentral'nyy Aerodrom: Real place. A smaller airport in Khabarovsk I couldn't find a lot of information other than a location on Google Maps. It's just past Chistopole and beyond the main airport in Khabarovsk, so Bucky's flight path into Tsentral'nyy just needed a slight shift to the left to land there instead.  
> Центральный аэродром  
> Khabarovskiy Kray  
> Dungheap: no explanation needed I'd expect :)


	17. Troika

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve+Bucky+Mother. What could go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for following! I love writing this story, love these characters. I'm grateful you're along for the journey. ♥♥♥

“You’re grayer than I remember. And shorter.” Steve’s gaze unwavering. Arms tight cradling Bucky, holding still his squirm.  
  
Sokolov matching his stare, cold intensity, “You’ve grown a beard.” Calculated pause, “You know, he never liked the facial hair.”  
  
Steve hinting a smirk, “You didn’t fool him, He knew it wasn’t me.”  
  
Curt observation, “I see your leg has healed nicely,” Dark eyes narrowed, “We should have torn it off.”  
  
  
  
  
Frigid Russian air surrounding pulling skin taut, prickling every breath; eyes watered with cold-pulled tears, the room’s stale odor filling nostrils. Distant sense of wetness, shins straddling Bucky, kneeling at the sink, spilling water dampening their legs, quick reach to turn it off. All sensations giving way to Steve’s singular focus, heat spreading fiber to fiber burning hotter at each point of contact holding Bucky possessive. Skin matching metal, arm wrapping his waist, groin pressed to ass, back tight held to his chest. Their mouths close flirting the kiss her laugh had interrupted.  
  
Fingers slotting intimate with metal, pressured pain chasing up Steve’s arm, welcomed discomfort from recent emptiness. Fingertip’s tender caress of a wound, raking through cascading hair. Apprehension falling away with Bucky’s softening, head giving under his hand, weight laid against his chest, bodies fitting close familiar.  
  
Steve wanting nothing more than to take Bucky home. Reality standing in the corner.  
  
Sokolov’s appearance frailer than the last time he’d seen her; standing over him strapped to a chair, pain, and drugs blurring his vision. Calculated taking her in; squared shoulders, demeanor projecting the icy calm of her years as a Black Widow, hands folded neatly. Her smile unnerving, the condescension of a hardened soldier wrapped in the guise of a grandmother. Her gaze pointed, features not showing her thoughts, eyes quick rake of their embrace, glinting disapproval.  
  
Unapologetic return of her stare, Steve pulling Bucky closer, fingers spread possessive, tangled in hair, palm warm to his temple, small finger pad soft stroke of his cheek. Fear teasing his thoughts, unspoken pull from across the room, deep-felt in his heart, twisted ache in his chest.  
  
Finding reassurance in the feel of Bucky giving in, clatter of the gun hitting the floor, body moving to fit tight to his own, mouth pressed to his skin, fingers catching his face, a thumb’s rake of his beard, returning his possessive hold, tense muscles slipping soft under his hands. Skin prickling warm from Bucky’s breath, gentle rise and fall steady comfort. Steve reveling in these seconds, heat cradled against his body, intimate fit between his legs, thoughts falling to the softness of hair carded in his fingers, wishing they were home in their bed.  
  
The moment hanging expectant, Steve claiming Bucky, the Widow studying them; silent dare for her to challenge.  
  
“Bravo, Captain. He’s yours apparently,” rasped laugh cutting, “I would applaud your points scored but...” Sokolov displayed her mangled right hand, casual wave before tucking it in her pocket. Locked gazes keeping intent.  
  
The grate of Sokolov’s voice sending a tremor through Bucky’s body, hard jerking against Steve. Metal fingers jarring loose from his palm, finger’s caress of his beard withdrawn, cold air stealing shared warmth. Bucky’s struggling turn to see her face.  
  
Steve not letting go, fighting her control, reassuring caress of metal, cheek pressed to temple, hand embracing his head, keeping him close, whispered admonition, “Don’t listen to her.”  
  
Bucky’s staggered breath against his chest, tightening grip on his shoulder, tension building in the body he held close, whisper to his ear, “Don’t let me go.”  
  
“Not leaving, not letting go.” Steve’s quiet reassurance backing his hold. Wanting his body, his words to keep him safe.  
  
Sokolov’s gaze challenging, fleeting glimpse of annoyance quick morphed to aloof, not one fiber of her demeanor revealing her plans. Steve noticing one tell, twitch of a muscle at the corner of her mouth, subtle and unconscious. Her eyes purposeful drop from Steve’s, a slow taunting run down Bucky’s body, lingering study. Shoulder straining reach to hold to Steve, point of his hip open with the rise of his shirt, thigh close pressed to thigh; every sinew and taut muscle, hinted smirk as her look stayed too long on his groin, a final settling on the hair wrapped in Steve’s fingers.  
  
Sharp pain clenching Steve’s gut, skin flushing anger at her taking of Bucky’s body, air drawn in to speak, muscles clenching to move caught short by the tapping of her foot. Firm stamped sets of three, echoing off ceramic tiles, noise filling the room, distinct and deliberate. Three and three and three. Her smile curving cruel.  
  
Steve cradling Bucky closer, fighting his struggle, holding the spreading tremor, determined to keep him from looking over his shoulder, trying to see her face. Hand bracing his jaw, arm tugging across his belly. Panic driving Bucky’s writhe, shared ache bridging flesh to flesh, Steve taking his pain.  
  
Hard pull to turn his head, mouths brushing close, Steve’s open full taking, tongue slipping long and languid claiming Bucky’s mouth. Teasing lips apart, flirting dip inside, teeth catching skin, pulling a faint hiss. Body struggle slowing, releasing the lip caught by his bite, soft licking comfort, knowing what his kiss would do, pushing his tongue deep and hard, hand entangling hair, not letting him fall away from the force of his embrace.  
  
Steve’s gaze never breaking with Sokolov’s, silent resolve to keep eyes wide open, locking with hers. Bodies moving slow turn, purposeful window given for her to see, intimacy shared, making his claim.  
  
Bucky’s eyes closing, tension slow falling away, giving in to Steve’s kiss, allowing his weight to lean heavy into his arms.  
  
The Widow’s cold stare watching, eyes not telling her thoughts, her foot going still, taunting echoes fading, sharp tic of her mouth revealing.  
  
Heat flushing Steve’s skin with Bucky’s soft moan, breath warm filling his mouth, forcing eyes closed, pressing a deeper kiss, body wanting more, hard tugging, lifting his knees from the floor. Giving in to the moment, aching want of home and bed and Bucky; lost to her watching.  
  
Sokolov’s words too-close intruding, “He’s very pretty, isn’t he?”  
  
Both jarring at the nearness of her voice, Steve’s eyes fluttering open, body jerking in his arms. The Widow standing inches away, hand lifting strands of Bucky’s hair, twirling in her fingers. Her smile near sincere, dark pupils full meeting Steve’s, her murmur, “He was always a good fuck.”  
  
Steve’s rise to his feet quick fluid movement, lifting Bucky with him, sharp turn to spin him away from her touch. Deliberate steps to block her view, her reach, wide stance taken keeping her from Bucky. Growled warning, “Enough.”  
  
Sokolov not backing away, holding her ground, inches from Steve.  
  
Bucky intervening, “It’s okay, I’m fine,” hand grabbing Steve’s arm, trying to pull him back, his words and tug not working to get his attention.  
  
“Does he please you?” Coy smile insinuating.  
  
“Stop talking about him.” Step forward, closing the space, her not stepping back.  
  
“Please don’t do this,” Bucky’s staggered moves to keep them separate, blocked by Steve’s arm, holding him at bay.  
  
The tilt of her head implying curiosity, “I’m not talking about him, I’m asking you. Does he please you?”  
  
Steve pointing, “You need to go back into that corner,” Steps crowding her space.  
  
Mother not giving him an inch, head falling back, her gaze slipping too slow up his chest to settle on his face, “Does he take care of you? Fulfill your needs?”  
  
Bucky yanked on Steve’s arm, jumping between them, metal fingers shoving the widow to stumble against the wall. Flesh palm flat on Steve’s chest pressured lean trying to force a step back.  
  
Steve grabbing Bucky’s waist, a struggle to tuck him in behind “This conversation is over,” Arm wrapping around to keep him pressed to his back.  
  
Mother not relenting, “Love or lust, Captain, hard to tell them apart at times. I can see it in the flush on your cheeks. Your tone deepens, pupils expand. Passion? Is that what you think you feel for him? You’ll throw him away someday, yes? Use him up like all the others and toss him aside.” Knowing nod, raised eyebrow, hands folded settling the matter, “Then he will come home to me, just like he did this time. He will come home to Mother.”  
  
Anger driving Steve’s darting move forward, “You are not his home, not his Mother.”  
  
Bucky wrestling to get ahead of him, blocking his steps, hands pressing chest, gripping shoulders, catching his face, forcing eyes to move to meet his own, desperate begging, “No. Don’t do this. Please, please don’t listen to her.”  
  
Steve’s eyes darting to Bucky, drawn back to confront the Widow’s relentless smirk. “You used him. You nearly destroyed him.”  
  
Letting the echo of his words die down, Sokolov countered with finality, “You gave him to me. You let him fall.”  
  
Steve’s lunge towards the Widow, pressured push against Bucky’s hands, feet sliding with his force. Fists clenched, no words, anger turning features cold.  
  
Stopped by Bucky’s shoulder, his arms around his waist, “No, no. NO, leave it. Leave it alone.” Giving to the force of Bucky’s body shoving him back, desperate words choked in his ear. “This is what she wants. Wants you angry, she’s playing with you.” They stumbled away from the Widow, arms tangled, holding to one another, staggering steps to end with Steve’s shoulders pressed to the far wall, Bucky’s weight full on his body.  
  
Steve grabbing Bucky’s arms, near shaking him, a bend to whisper his question, “And you? She’s hurting you. Just by talking, by stomping her god damned foot.”  
  
Roll of his head dismissive, “She’s done worse. She’s making progress.”  
  
Ducking to make eye contact, “Buck. Don’t tell me you’re defending her?”  
  
Bucky shook his head, “I’m not. Nope,” Palm laid flat on his chest, “I’m protecting you.”  
  
Steve’s insistent, “She’s not gonna hurt me,” softened by Bucky’s caress of his cheek.  
  
Lip pulled into a bite, Bucky whispering, “She already has.”  
  
“I don’t need protection from her.” Steve’s firm words tempered by need, hands gripping Bucky’s hips, pulling him near.  
  
Thumb slow stroke of Steve’s cheek, “If that’s what you think then you’re screwed.” A finger careful placed on Steve’s mouth when he drew in a breath to argue. Slow shake of his head, seconds passing, watching one another, final whisper, “No more.” He crossed to the parcel in the sink, quick glance to check on the Widow, cold look warning. A mutter towards Steve, “How did you find me?”  
  
“The horde of men running and pointing in this direction, yelling something about a long-haired guy with a metal arm covered in shit. Tasha provided the translation.” Steve following, hands gripping Bucky’s hips, fingers discreet finding his skin, a fight to quiet the fear he was losing him, “Buck, if you won’t give this up, then where are we heading?”  
  
“There is no we. Not in this.” Bucky shaking his head, hard pressed to the sink by Steve’s body, comforting lean into arms wrapping, “Mother and...” Steve’s groan against his hair, changing his wording, “Her and I, we need to move. Now.”  
  
Steve’s maneuvering Bucky, abrupt turn to bring them face-to-face, hands cupping his head, “You’re not getting rid of me. Tell me where you’re going? What do the numbers mean? What’s his name?”  
  
Stubborn denial, Bucky moving to pull his head from Steve’s hold, “No. Not safe.”  
  
“Then why give me the coordinates?” Steve ducking to keep eye contact, not letting go, a leg holding him in place, “Why wait for me to follow you? Why show yourself, then run? You want me here. You want this. So knock off the games and let me help you.”  
  
A halfhearted struggle to wriggle free, Bucky trying to avoid Steve’s gaze, “I’ve been off my meds, remember? Poor decision-making.”  
  
Steve holding him pressed against the sink, lifting his head, thumbs deep stroking faint stubble, “Bullshit.” Hard words, soft-spoken so close his breath warmed Bucky’s mouth, “Where are we going? What’s his name?”  
  
Reluctant pulling hands from his face, Bucky pressed his lips to Steve’s wrist, lingering take of his skin, flirting tongue to sensitive flesh; intimacy hidden from the Widow by the fall of his hair.  
  
The kiss taking Steve’s resolve, weakening muscled tightness, “Don’t do this. Come home.”  
  
Words spoken against Steve’s skin, “I need to move, we’ve been here too long.” A slow struggle to break from his grip, Bucky turned to open the parcel.  
  
Insistent following, Steve’s hand slipping across Bucky’s back, fingers looping over his waistband, a tug to shake his body, “I am not leaving.” Taking the space over Bucky’s shoulder, arm pulling at his waist, studying his face, breath purposeful warm on his cheek.  
  
Torn by Steve’s touch, his eyes watching him, trying to keep his focus, Bucky rough pulling open the muck soaked parcel, digging to drag free the inner packet, sorting quick through the contents piece after piece. “Fine, then follow me from a distance, no talking to me, no interfering, no coming to the rescue...” words stopped by the passport in his hand.  
  
Steve seeing his hesitation, “Is that him? The Architect?” A quick grab of the document, wrestling it from Bucky’s fingers, hard struggle to take it away, he held it up to stare at the yellowed picture. One arm fighting Bucky’s pull to slide from his grip, the other holding the worn passport up to the light, heartbeats pounding at his temple, letting the image sink into his mind; blue eyes, clean-shaved, blond man, broad-shoulders, clear echo of himself, sending the cold of nausea to sit deep in his gut. He closed the old passport and threw it in the sink.  
  
Bucky stopped his fight of Steve’s hold, keeping his eyes on the papers in his hands, words spoken a hesitant whisper, “I figured it out after a while. It wasn’t you.” Slow, ragged breath keeping emotions in check, “I was sick, confused.” Faint shrug, metal fingers prying at the hand that held him in place, trying to loosen his hold, “I should have known it wasn’t you. I’m a fool.”  
  
Steve’s firm countering, “No. No, you’re not.”  
  
Bucky shaking his head, “They said you were dead; then there you were. I just wanted you, wanted you to be there. Alive. I’m sorry...”  
  
“Stop.” Steve cutting him off, “They lied to you. They did this. Not you.” Catching his cheek, needing to see his face, have their eyes connect, Bucky resisting. Steve grabbing his shoulders, pulling him around, adamant, “Look at me.”  
  
  
Slow reluctance, Bucky allowing the pull of his body, eyes darting up then away, not wanting to face him, both knowing the history of the First Handler, the one that resembled Steve.  
  
Two hands catching Bucky’s face, pushing him back, falling against the sink with the drive of Steve’s body, an arm possessive wrapping his neck, a mouth covering his own, stealing his breath, weight pressing insistent. Bucky opening his legs, hands full taking Steve’s ass, tucking him in, breaking sweat across bodies tight bound. Desperate attempt at erasing the past.  
  
Sokolov’s loud tsk doing nothing to stop their embrace.  
  
Faint click of the door, not startling, both hearing the familiar soft tap. Steve breaking the kiss, quick turn, hand pressed to Bucky’s chest, body blocking anyone’s access.  
  
Bucky pulled the knife from the small of his back, ready waiting.  
  
Slender finger curling around the door’s edge, dark red nails recognizable, Natasha following to slip into the room, efficient gaze taking them in before closing the door behind her. “Boys. You might want to move the reunion to the jet. That is if we’re going back to the jet. Company’s on their way.” Her gaze falling deliberate on the Widow, not returning the thin smile. “Sam just spotted three cars pulling in, they’re out front, and one’s on their way to the back. We don’t have much time.”  
  
“Great. You texted them didn’t you?” Purposeful turn towards Sokolov, Bucky extending his hand, “Give me the phone.”  
  
The Widow’s answer a shrug, hands dug deep in her pockets, not moving.  
  
Bucky’s purposeful stride, one hand extended the other with the knife, heading straight for her, “You forget something Widow. A lesson you taught me. If you can’t get the job done clean, then kill everything in your way until the job is done.” Steps ending one boot stubbing her toe, the knife point clinking against the wall a hair from her neck. Bucky staring down, low growl, “You are getting in my way.”  
  
Sokolov’s head pressed to the wall, gaze not flinching. A reach into her pocket, ”I remember that lesson, you learned it well,” She dropped the phone into his hand.  
  
Bucky’s turn to walk away a near stumble, Steve hovering close behind him.  
  
“You forgot the most important part, Soldat.” Mother calling as they moved across the room, “Your life is expendable.”  
  
Sidelong look exchanged with Steve, catching the worry that crossed his face, Bucky slipped the knife into its sheath, grabbing his sweater to tug over his head. “Gotta go.”  
  
Steve’s firm statement, “I’m going with you.”  
  
“No. You’re not.” Jacket pulled on; gun tucked at his belly, money, and papers shoved in the backpack, he tossed it over his shoulder. Bucky glanced towards Sokolov, a wag of his head to call her over.  
  
Steve grabbing his arm, hissed demand, holding him back from the door, “Where are you going?”  
  
Bucky not pulling away, reluctant turn to face him, internal debate playing across his features, worry morphing to sadness. Fingers to Steve’s cheek, a thumb's slow caress of his lip. Metal hand catching his waist, hard pulling him close, mouths brushing intimate, eyes open watching, giving in to the ache of needing him near.  
  
Steve holding his breath, not wanting the moment to break, hoping Bucky would relent.  
  
Softness filling Bucky’s eyes, telling of a decision made, tongue darting a stolen tease of Steve’s mouth, his words whispered hot against his skin, “Khabarovsk 1. Train 306. You’ll need passports. And, you can’t be with me.”  
  
Bucky’s open mouth taking, tongue slipping deep, making the wetness last, slow caress of Steve’s mouth, stealing the taste of him. A kiss revealing his fear full knowing they might not get this again. Wanting it to last, to be remembered. Teeth raking Steve’s lip as he pulled away by a breath.  
  
Metal fingers digging into Steve’s ass, near to lifting his leg, hips pressing close, Bucky unable to let go. Shared breaths panted warm to mouths flirting close. Foreheads pressing, Steve’s admission, “I know what you’re doing. You think we won’t see...”  
  
Patting Steve’s cheek, gaze dropping to his mouth, thumb stealing a caress of his lip, “Just need your taste in my mouth, Rogers, that’s all. Just need to remember how you taste.”  
  
Steve closing his eyes, fingers dug over Bucky’s waistband, “You’re an asshole, let me go with you.”  
  
Bucky leaning near, mouth pressed to Steve’s ear, breath pulled in sending a shiver across his skin, softest of whispers meant only for his hearing, “Lubov moya,” gentle fingers raking through his hair, hinting a smile, “You’ll see me on the train.”  
  
  
  
  
Cold air brushed his cheek, fingers pried from his grip on Bucky’s pants, Steve opening his eyes to see Bucky slipping away hood over his hair, Sokolov a step ahead, the door soft closing behind him.  
  
“I’m heading back to Sam; we’ll do what we can to buy him time.” Natasha’s voice breaking his inertia.  
  
Steve split-seconds staring at the door, a mutter more for himself, “How can he tell me to fuck off and still make me ache like this?”  
  
Natasha’s frowned confusion slipping past his attention. She followed Bucky out into the barn.  
  
Steve’s step to follow held up, a turn to examine the contents of the sink. Hesitant fingers picking up the passport, flipping it open to check the markings, faded Hydra symbol in the corner, no time to think it through, near to throwing it in the trash. Last second tucking it in his jacket, he headed out the door.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

  
  
Angered Cyrillic voices approaching, pulling their attention. Bucky grabbing the Widow’s collar pushing her forward, a rush without rushing towards the far end of the barn. Gaze studying what lay ahead, stealing a look behind, efficient assessment of his surroundings. Heading for their escape. Silent regret at the lack of options, firm resolve to not get anyone hurt.  
  
A wave of clattering noise flowing down the center aisle, marking the passing of the remnants of Hydra, searching and gaining ground. Rough pulling at men along the way, horse’s hooves skittering on brick pavers, shouted arguments, other voices soft calming frightened animals. The men out-of-place making their way methodical closer.  
  
Heart pounding heat across his skin, focus narrowing down, task at hand, escaping with the Widow. Sounds of pursuit getting closer. Bucky feeling out of place. Quick pace slowed by a frightened horse’s dancing cross-tied in the aisle, Sokolov slipping from his grip.  
  
  
Metal fingers stroking the animal's neck, unconscious movement, trying to settle its fear. Soft whispered words in Russian, “It’s okay, I’m sorry, sorry.” Steps needing caution. Time ticking in his head. The horse gradual settling, sweat springing on its chest. Ancient memories teasing Bucky’s mind, flash of whiteness, frigid air wrapping around his waking dream. A horse taking him across an empty landscape, mingled breathes visible in cold air, the dulling of sounds that comes with the fall of a heavy snow.  
  
Shaking his head, Bucky breaking from old memories, pulling him into the now. Furtive glance towards harsh voices rapidly approaching, confusion building at his back. Attention turning towards the Widow, her nearly at the door, far out of his reach. Breaths sounding loud and rhythmic in his head.  
  
Bucky intently listening mingled sounds surrounding, approaching heavy footfalls, distinct, familiar voices; Natasha’s laugh wrapping her Cyrillic words, Wilson’s playing the tourist, struggling with a saddle, working to slow the advance of his pursuers.  
  
Steve’s voice not in the mixture, Bucky still knowing he was close, feeling his presence, hovering shadowed person not far away. Never doubting Steve. Sensing his gaze locked on his back. Hoping he’d stay out of it, not giving to the urge of turning around. Steps quickening as he slipped past the horse, bright light spilling just ahead. Nearly at the door.  
  
Eyes catching a glimpse of Mother crossing over the threshold, brick giving way to hard packed dirt, her steps coming to a halt. Calculated turn to look back at him. Gaze connecting.  
  
Too far from his hand to stop her when the dark car skidded to a stop. Doors opening urgent, weapons held out in the open. Bucky’s hand discreet slipping beneath his sweater, fingering the gun at his belly. Heart beating in his ears drowning all sounds except for Steve, inches from his back whispering, “Don’t trust her.”  
  
One hand palm open at his side, hoping Steve would follow his cue to wait. Bucky held his breath conscious counting sets of three. Time standing still.  
  
Mother’s eyes turning bright, faint smile not revealing, letting him stand there building a sweat, to see what she would do. Deliberate turn to the car, her words rapid-fire Cyrillic, the men looking around, attentive listening. Her turning towards the barn gaze shifting to Bucky, lingering look seconds too long, forcing a tight gut-wrenching pain.  
  
“Fuck,” muttered close, palm wrapping the stock of the gun, cautious tug to pull it free. One step forward, muscles going taut, bracing. Her hand coming up, finger pointing, nearly direct at this chest. Sending the tremor through his body, caught sharp by Steve’s palm on his back.  
  
A wild grandmotherly wave of her hand in his direction, “Pasha, I’ll be right there. These nice men asked me a question, dear. Be patient with your babushka.” Sokolov’s voice shrilling sweet with her turn towards the barn, a sweeping gesture to point at the snow-packed field, “There, down there. I saw him running, a disgusting young man, dirty hair, disheveled. Yes, he went across that field. Scared those poor animals.”  
  
Steve’s voice near Bucky’s ear, “What the hell?”  
  
Bucky shaking his head, not turning around, “What are you still doing here? Go away. What part of don’t be with me do you not understand?”  
  
Hurried stride forward to stop at her feet, her hair knot meeting his armpit. He waited for her to look up. A slight nod, eyes narrowed, taking her in, he added in Russian, “Let the games begin.” Extended hand to ask her to get in the car, she slid across to the passenger’s seat.  
  
Bucky jumping in beside her, gear thrown in reverse, heavy foot to the pedal, hard turn of the wheel, slammed short when Steve stepped in front of the car.  
  
“Just wait. One second. Wait.” Steve pointing one finger, hesitant move not willing to get out his way, rush to get to the passenger door, yanking it open. Curt demand of the Widow, “Move.”  
  
Her turn to get out stopped by his directive, “No, move over.”  
  
Bucky insistent, “No, no, no.”  
  
Steve equally firm, “Yes, yes, yes. There is no way I’m leaving you alone with her.”  
  
“Damn it, Steve.” Forehead dropping to the steering wheel.  
  
Sokolov’s curious gaze moving from one to the other before she slid to the middle of the seat.  
  
Steve climbing in, a hard slam of the door, gaze intent straight ahead, “I think we should go now. They’re coming back.”  
  
Bucky stepping on the gas, the car picking up speed, back end slipping on frozen dirt, racing towards their escape.

  
  
_“I am not entirely sure how to score this round. Mother definitely, maybe four? The Captain, admirable first go a strong two. Soldat --- Zero. Again.”_

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

  
  
  
Cedar slats covering the surfaces; walls, floor, ceiling. Steam wafting from the cold water’s dousing of heated rocks in the center of the sauna. Layered benches climbing upwards, streams of hot wetness swirling higher to crawl across the darkened redwood topping the room.  
  
Men lounging on the lower benches, some lying, others sitting, towels discreet covering. One man sitting above the rest, head brushing the ceiling. Legs spread wide, body lean, muscled form, genitals displayed, daring any eye to fall on his body — no one taking that dare.  
  
The messenger fully dressed stepping uncertain into the space, ducking his head, trying to see beyond the misty clouds. Sweat beading fast, dripping down his face, wetting the armpits of his shirt. Discomfort showing, averted eyes,  waiting for his invitation to speak.  
  
A young man lounging on the lower bench calling across the chamber, “Too modest to strip? Or you’re not here for the steam.”  
  
The messenger pulled the hat from his head, holding it rolled in his hands, stuttered voice cracking, “I’m not here for the steam. No. I have a message. From an old friend.” A permission-seeking glance at the guard standing by the doorway toweled as the others, hands crossed in a modest pose, his gaze a cold assessment.  
  
Shuffled feet, taking a dared step closer, warned off by the glare of the guard. “Yes. Sorry, of course. The old woman has returned. She has a message.”  
  
The younger man laughing, “Old woman? We’re not interested in old women here.” His answer gaining a small ripple of agreement from his compatriots in the group.  
  
A gruff voice near the middle of the tiers asking with hardness, “Who are you talking about?”  
  
His voice with a hint of concern, “Gieta Sokolov. She served the old order for many years.”  
  
A different voice from the middle of the steam, “Sokolov? Who the hell is that?”  
  
The messenger more boldly answering, “Agent Sokolov. Agent for Hydra. The Black Widow.”  
  
The young man sitting up, his voice full of disdain, “They’re scattered, a mess. They couldn’t control that rogue assassin of theirs; he cost us a fortune. They drove him insane. Should have put a gun to his head years ago."  
  
Gruff voice cutting him short, “What could an old woman have that Mr. Petrovitch would want?”  
  
The guard stepping forward to stand close to his back, pressuring hard flesh to sweat-soaked clothing, “Get to the point. Mr. Petrovitch is getting impatient.”  
  
“I’ve spoken with her. She is bringing you a gift. Right now as we speak, she is on her way. She brings you the Asset. The Winter Soldier. Returning to your control.”  
  
Silence fell as dense as the air. The messenger shifted his body, gaze straining to see their faces, the change in the room a palpable chill.  
  
  
Near imperceptible twitch of a fingertip, the man sitting at the top of the sauna, the single indication of a directive given. No further hint of hearing the messenger’s news, eyes not shifting from his stare straight ahead, appearing unmoved and unimpressed with his visitor.  
  
“Thank you for your service,” The guard’s hand on his shoulder, a guide to showing him out, soon slipping to encircle his neck, tightening embrace. Strangled gasping for air, hands flailing, feet kicking panicked struggle not long or worthy of his opponent. Desperate clinging to the last glimpse of life, not successful as he fell heavy and done to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lubov Moya...My Love  
> Troika...A Russian vehicle drawn by three horses; A three horse team; A political alliance of three. (That does not necessarily get along!)


	18. It's Complicated

Wounds not addressed fester over time. Tony Stark staring, bloodshot eyes dry from missing sleep, obsessive focus; know your enemy. Hydra’s data, the Soldier’s past, family snapshots; cold sweat chasing heated anger, finding his life entangled with those that he loathed.

Translucent computer images following him room to room, hanging suspended in the air, ghosts he manipulated with a flick of a finger, relief from the haunting within his control. Still choosing to watch, stare, calculate in the name of his research; not admitting to himself the macabre fascination, wanting the fire of his hurt to continue its burn. One grainy video loop fueling his singular rage, familiar flesh hand tightening around his mother’s throat.

  
“Four hundred fifty-four hours, eight minutes and thirty-two seconds. That’s 18.91666 days give or take a few six’s, eight minutes and twenty-eight seconds.” Finger to his temple, gaze riveted on dark history replayed in the air. Countdown ticking incessant embedded in the corner of the screen, “twenty-seven, twenty-six, twenty-five,” Stark’s words directed at the phone tucked between the bottles lining the shelf behind a bar. “Calendar is marked, big fat red sharpie circle, virtual, not paper. GPS locked and loaded.”

Exaggerated curving of his back, hands grip of chin and head, cracking his neck, “Why not now? Reasons. Mine and yours. Let’s see; It’s a dirty job. He’s an assassin. Was, an assassin. One man instead of an army. He’s cheap. We don’t have to feed him apparently --- My word. I gave it.” A nod for the voice speaking in his ear, eyes rolling for himself, “No hurting Rogers. Let him finish his mission.” Hands on the bar, gaze drawn to the rhythmic changing numbers, “18.8999 days to go, clock’s ticking loud, in my head, not for real, too annoying, that constant tick-tick-tick. Yes, hyper-aware of that clock.”

Slow pace, hands raking hair, “Trust him? No.” Aching stare at the fear frozen on his mother’s face, voice tight, “I trust what I see. He accomplishes what he sets out to finish.” Tony letting seconds pass, the caller’s words overridden by the rush of blood to his head.

“What? Going soft? Only around the middle. Not enough sit-ups. His location? Yes. He took my jet, I know exactly where he is. Listen, I’m asking you to trust me. Bigger picture here. He’s going after something significant, not clear yet, I have my suspicions. This could benefit all of us. Why waste resources when he’s an --- asset. For now anyway.”

Abrupt end of his steps gaze caught on the red book inches from his hand on the bar, purposeful about-face, “Look, there’s no rush to arrest him. Yes, it’s me saying that. I’ve seen him up close. He’s not --- not who he was. Still a threat, still a piece of … Agreed, still a fugitive. Needs to be cuffed, curtailed and thrown in jail. In four hundred fifty-three hours, forty-five minutes, and twenty-two seconds. Twenty-one seconds...”

Deep breath drawn, “Rogers? He won’t understand. He wouldn’t approve.” Slow exhaled, “Let me deal with him.”

Tony stared at the image on the phone, “Barnes? Won’t be a problem. He gave me his word. Are you calling me a fool? I’m deeply offended. You do realize you’re not my first fool accusation?”

Digging the earbud from his ear, his thumb switching the phone to the speaker, Tony’s voice working for casual curious, worry sitting deep-seated hidden from his tone, “You never said how you found his location?”

Secretary Ross’s words surrounded by a laugh, “I have my contacts, Stark. Just like you. Not about to give away my sources. I’ll expect updates. It would be awkward to have to step in, to send a team to go get them. International intrigues, messy. Let’s keep this clean, low-key. Agreed?”

“Clean. Yup. I’m clean, ask Pepper, super clean.” Tony swiping a finger across Ross’s picture shoving the call to an end, eyes closing for seconds, breath held then blown out ragged, a reach for the nearest bottle.

Thick amber liquid pouring, slow-motion circling within the weighted crystal glass. Daylight laying a heated swatch through the room, glinting reflections from the single frozen cube dropped inattentive, splashing errant drops on a hand, spilling random to pool on the polished steel of the bar.

Palm laid flat on hot metal, memories flashing forward, deep sand, baking sun, throat swollen with thirst not satisfied; Tony’s waking dream reliving his time in the desert, held against his will, aching for his freedom. Reluctant seconds to linger on a parallel watched countless times in his lab. Nameless men dragging the man he hated, limbs weak, identity erased, not fighting the ritual, body strapped into a chair.

“Irony is a necessity apparently,” words spoken to settling scotch. Gaze darting to the book, far end of the bar; black star etched in red leather. Small against the scale of Stark’s opulent room, demanding his attention beyond the scope of its size, “And you, you just stay out of this.” Accusing finger pointed towards the chronicle of the Soldier’s torture.

Faint tremor averted by Tony’s clenching of his fist, the bottle placed not far from his reach. One finger’s affectionate caress, glass neck unresponsive, a pointed directive to not wander off. Edge of his hand gathering amber spill, unconscious licking, obsessive recovery of each minuscule drop. The mirror behind the bar, harsh reflection stopping him short, hand to mouth hungered sucking, a holding of the pose, faltering under his own judgmental eye.

A shifting of his focus taking in the computer’s frozen image hovering suspended in the middle of the room, his mother’s last breath etched in sepia-toned time. Angered swipe to move past her last moments, the pictures slipping by to settle on a figure kneeling at the gated entrance to his home.

Tony's breath caught sharp at the glaring juxtaposition. Long hair, soaking wetness dripping over palms held open, Bucky slumping defeated too drunk to find his way to the facility’s open door. Voice rasped and shaking, rambling words repeated, “I’m sorry, so sorry, please open the gate. Please, I deserve this.” Abrupt cutting of the sound, not stopping the echo of Bucky’s guilt, Tony muttering, “Pathetic,” as he tilted the glass to watch the ice chasing itself in swirling liquid.

Sharp pain of connection, Tony’s ghosted reminder of knees hitting the floor, too far gone to stay standing. Arms wrapping cold porcelain, fogged memories of things he’d said and done wrapped in his own drinking. Shaming regrets still gripping his chest.

Disdain holding tight to his mind, Stark’s accusing finger pointed at Bucky, “You and I have nothing in common.” Dismissive wave of his hand, “Nothing.” Abrupt wag of his head, “Excuse me? What did you say?” Exaggerated lean as if the image had spoken; his words stuttered reluctant, “Rogers? Don’t hurt him? You do have balls, don’t you.”

Contemplative hold of the tumbler to shimmer in the setting sun, “Don’t hurt the former friend,” Vague salute towards Bucky’s kneeling image, “Now your friend. Captain America. No, wait,” cool glass pressed to his forehead, “Not Cap, not anymore,” Glass lifted towards the figure suspended, “Thanks to you. Just mundane Steve Rogers.”

“What? Say again?” Brow furrowed in mock confusion, moving to smooth when he answered himself, “Yup, you’re right about one thing. Nothing mundane about Rogers.”

Tony’s gaze falling on the scotch’s refracted light before bringing the liquid to his lips. Numbing wetness slipping across his tongue, ice bouncing against his mouth, chastising thought to take it slow, quick overruled by his mind’s replaying of screams torn from a Soldier’s throat. An open mouth pull of the liquid and ice, empty glass thudding on the bar.

“I tried scream therapy once, well not officially.” Eyes squeezed shut, hands spread to lean on the surface, savoring the burn taking his throat. “Unofficially in the hanger bay. Two in the morning, doors shut, excellent echo.” Gaze shifting back to his virtual companion, “There’s something relieving about a good primal scream. Don’t you agree?”

Purposeful cross to stand inches from the shimmering picture, Bucky’s face hidden by his hair, silent witness to Stark’s monologue, “What you did. Those screams, in that machine, now that was primal.” A finger wagged sloppy, poking through Bucky’s body hanging suspended in front of his face, “Not the same kind of primal. I’ll give you that.”

Tony embracing the veil of disconnection that too much alcohol brings; still not enough to blacken-out sepia-toned torture clicking methodical across his memory. Purposeful flip of his wrist to chase the kneeling image aside, replaced by another; Bucky standing in his lab, tangled mess of hair, thumbs wrapped in the hem of his sweater; gray eyes faint glimmer of his pain, unfaltering gaze locked with his own.

Slow steps circling Bucky, Tony passing through the image letting it play bright to dark across his body, “Hydra liked their documentation. You remember, don’t you? Pictures snapping, I saw you blink, you know, from the flash; old school, blinded by that white dot burned into your retinas. Movies, the camera loved you, very photogenic, the cameraman not so much. Shaky hand, you’d think Hydra would invest in tripods. Yup all kinds of memorabilia right up to the time you became the chattel of Pierce. Nothing from his era, more of a businessman, not a scientist. Leave no trace behind.”

Veering from his circle heading towards the far end of the bar, “Data quantification, algorithms, speculations; meticulous indisputable evidence of their success and failures,” finger rhythmic emphasis to metal with each point made as he slow approached the end of the bar. Last tap landing decisive in the center of the black star on the book, “The bastards took notes on everything.”

Lingering gaze on bound leather, one finger pushing it along the metal as he wandered back to the bottle. Next drink poured, ice added, glass cradled possessive; an offhand remark, “Oh, hey, not being rude. I’d offer you a drink but, well, Rogers tells me you’re on medications, I’d hate to be the cause of your decompensation --- more, decompensating more.”

Slow pace of the room, tightening circle of Bucky’s image, words spoken with clinical efficiency, “Strength, resilience, heart rate, how long you could go without eating or drinking, or --- taking a shit.” A pause to gaze purposeful, connecting with Bucky’s frozen stare, “One particularly gruesome test. Recovery time.”

Glass held up, gentle swirl of the liquid, pinkie finger pointed towards Bucky’s face, “Right. Recovery time. Give you chills? Did me, I’ll admit it.” Voice lowered to share a secret, “Just between us.”

Tony studied the amber liquid, seconds passing, “Your healing rate is close to Rogers'. How do I know that you ask?” Affirmative nod, “Good question --- They filmed it. Knife to the gut, gunshot to the shoulder, broken femur, collar bone, arm, the other arm,” glass raised to drink, aborted, jaw tightening, words gritted, anger showing safe with only Bucky’s image as a witness, “All purposeful. All done in the name of their god-damned science.”

Tony’s gaze shifting towards the setting sun, deep breath, words rasped quietly, “Then film the healing; ticking clock, white coats all standing around, clipboards in hand, watching --- not helping, not stopping it, just watching you.” Quick glance towards his silent listener, “You’re a quiet bastard when they’re not frying your brain.”

One finger dipped in the scotch, brought to his mouth, licking taste, he stared out the window again, “No pain meds, no stick to chew on, not even CNN to offer inane distractions. Wide awake through it all.” Voice trailing quiet, silence filling the room, focus slow return to Bucky’s image, “You already know this. If you remember it.” Jaw tightening, studied gaze, stepping closer, question bordering on curious sincere, “Have you shared this shit with Rogers?”

Letting seconds pass before gulping down the scotch, abrupt turn back to the bar, tumbler clunking with metal, “Sick bastards,” mumbled to himself.

Tony poured another drink, “Alright let’s get serious here. I can acknowledge some, I said some sympathy. Yes, there is evidence, indisputable in its completeness and objectivity since I opened the file myself, but, now listen to me you pathetic excuse of humanity,” sudden move of his arm shooting out towards the screen, hand wrapping the threat of the gauntlet, finger angry pointed at Bucky’s virtual head, “You did it. None of that gave you the right. It doesn’t get you off the hook. No. You are not forgiven.”

Glass in hand, steps prowling forward and back, one-sided confrontation, “I want to know something, Barnes. You piece of shit. If you could heal like that. If you can fight the way, I’ve seen on these tapes, in real life. Why the fuck didn’t you fight them? Why not kill them all? Why let them do that? You should have killed every last one of them for what they did --- to you. Made you --- fuck it. You did it, not them. Fuck you.”

Glimmer of empathy no match for his resentment. Hard wave of his gauntlet hand across Bucky’s vacant stare forcing it to cycle away allowing a return to him kneeling at the gate. Tony’s jaw setting tight, gaze skeptical study of the man he hated, snow surrounding, flakes hanging suspended, the wetness of his clothing evident, darkened patterns covering thighs and shoulders, the cold seeping through the image to settle in his bones.

Reflexive shiver triggering the repulsor to whine its firing warning, heated glow building in his palm. Stark staggering back, eyes blinking erratic, coming close to razing the carpet. The jolt of sound and heat and electrified energy coursing up his arm calling him back from the brink of his rage. Conscious effort to make the gauntlet fade back into his watch, deep breath held, eyes closing, searching for the center of his calm.

 

Tony finding his voice, “Intense. You bring the worst out in me. Let’s change the topic. How about a virtual tour.” Beckoning wave with the glass, “Since you’re in Russia and yes I know that. And yes I know you slammed my jet into a pile of horse dung. Hilarious, Barnes. I’m sure your back pay will cover it. Oh wait, you're an international criminal, you don't get back pay. Oops. Maybe Rogers will loan it to you."

Tony crossing the room, “This is the closest you’ll get to movie night, so pay attention.” A step through thick doors into the theater, sounds muffled, pinpointed light spreading ahead of his path, guiding his steps, dimming out when he flopped in the over-stuffed chair. Head lolling to embrace the headrest, scotch-tinged vision staring at the ceiling, a mumbled direction to the room, “Resume the Tales of Winter,” he bought the glass to his lips.

Darkness yielding to Hydra’s secrets playing in the air around him, “I’ll give you this, Barnes, there is a treasure trove of data from that dump.” Tony studying the images, hyper-focus staggering under the weight of his distraction. Real-time data falling victim to the past, dead-end weapons deals losing to the sounds of Bucky’s screams. Attention faltering, Stark starting the looping images over again, searching for the key to finding Hydra’s remnants, twists and turns meant to hide true identities; his attention pulled repetitive to faded snapshots of people thought to be long dead.

One image catching his attention, “Is that you Barnes? The hippie-hair is a dead giveaway and the leather. Do you even know what a hippie is?” Eyes squinting in the darkness, pointed exam of each faded person, “Who’s your girlfriend? Although she looks more like a nanny I had, age 10, no maybe 12. Not that kind of cool nanny you know, or maybe you don’t know. The constipated kind, never smiled, loud snoring, corporal punishment if she could get away with it.”

Tony stood to examine the picture closer, fingers manipulating the image, focus changing, sharp to dull, bright to soft, working to see their faces, “So she’s definitely not a girlfriend, not with that stun prod in her hands unless you were into that sort of thing. Maybe when I was partying hard, maybe. Given your history, I doubt this was consensual.” A finger pinch to resize the lower corner. Glasses pulled from a pocket he tsk’d his frustration, moving his head, squatting to bring the lettering into focus, slow reading the word aloud, sounding the syllables with care, “Pe-tro-vit-ch.”

The name tickling his memory. Nagging sense of answers dancing just outside of his reach, Tony allowing the glass to drop to the floor, the phone dug from his pocket. “I did take a solemn oath of fealty and word of honor, cross my arc reactor heart and hope to not die. But, let’s see. One: you lied. Two: You broke my jet. Three: You broke my jet with dung. Four: You hung up on me. Five: You lied. Cheeky bastard.”

Seconds of hesitation as he dialed Steve’s number, eyes riveted on the faded image, memory searching history, why the name seemed familiar. Ross’s threats looming close. Stark hoping Steve would take his call. Thoughts churning with uncertainty, why he’d even care to warn them, thumb brushing the screen, second thoughts bringing him close to abandoning the call.

  
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

The phone’s ring jarring despite being tucked inside Steve’s jacket, the noise grating on nerves; tickling his skin, quick search to mute the distraction. Back turned to Bucky, reluctant attempt to honor his demands, holding his touch, staying as close as he would allow, feeding his need to protect him. Gaze casual scanning the crowd, bouncing on his toes playing the tourist, his eye watching for the men they’d seen at the barn.  
Sokolov equidistant between them, the trio tucked in a corner, ignored by the hurried train station crowd intent on their destinations.

Bucky embracing history, thoughts, and body slipping into the skin of the Soldier, holding anxiety at bay, metal hand tucked in his pocket, outward calm hiding the wrenching twist in his gut. Steady review of the cavernous place, white marbled pillars, walls of glass windows, the din of the crowd bouncing loud and grating in his hearing. Slight tilt of his head to accommodate the ringing in his ear, sharp pissed-off glance at the Widow, the giver of his pain, effort spent sorting through the cacophony of sounds.

Side-long look assessing; A squat, balding man catching his eye, awkward stance, facing the opposite of all the travelers, hands empty of bags or parcels, telling bulge under his jacket; cold gaze searching select faces, men that fit Bucky’s look; elderly women. The man pulling forward bitter memories crowding conscious thought; nameless angry men looming through his history.

Sweat clinging cold to Bucky’s T-shirt, a shiver quick hidden, counting seconds in sets of three, knowing the man’s gaze would find them soon. Rasped whisper meant for Steve, cautious turn to face him, “You need to go, now. Take her with you. I’ll cover you.” Hand digging in his pocket, pulling a rolled ball of rubles, covert discretion, shoving them in Steve’s hands, “Get tickets to Moscow, third class, train 306, get her on there. Just don’t let her out of your sight. Don’t talk to her, don’t listen to her. You know what, don’t look at her. Just, just...”

Steve’s phone ringing again, one hand pushing the money in his pocket, the other silencing the interruption. Assessing glance across the crowd, half-step nearer to Bucky, “It’s gonna be hard to keep an eye on her if I can’t look at her.”

“Funny. Very funny,” feet shuffling anxious, hand moving under the sweater, reassuring caress of the Glock. Quick tremor taking his body a shrug to chase it away. Steps bringing him near Steve, shoulder brushing shoulder, body drawn to his heat. Bucky’s words low and rapid, close to Steve’s ear, “Trust me, she’ll pluck the eyes out of your head so fast your brain will see her toss them in the trash, she’ll steal your thoughts, put her own voice in there, she’ll twist your mind...”

Steve’s worried turn reaching for Bucky’s cheek, held back when he flinched away at the phone’s insistent demands. Steve fumbling to quiet the buzzing, leaning closer, cautious question, “Buck, I hate to ask this. When? The last dose. When?”

Bucky running fingers through his hair, shaking his head, gaze wandering disorganized, settling apprehensive on Steve, “I can’t remember. Not long ago --- I think.”

Sokolov’s terse interruption, “Four hours. On the jet.”

“What?” Bucky not hiding his annoyance.

Back straightening, the Widow not turning to face them, her gaze scrutinizing the crowded terminal, “You took pills four hours ago. we were on the jet.” Her tone laced cold and clinical, “Your blood serum levels are clearly sub-optimal, perhaps you need a higher dose.”

“That’s enough.” Steve’s words meant for the Widow, his steps towards Bucky, moving him back to press against the wall. Gentle insistence, “Take them now, you need water? I’ll get you water. Take them.”

“I’m fine. Fine, too soon. It’s too soon. Steve, please. Leave. I don’t want them to see you. Get on the train.”

“I’m not leaving you.” Steve’s reach needing fingertips to brush against skin.

“Don’t...” Bucky’s darting gaze towards his hand, not stopping Steve. Catching his cheek, fingers slipping into hair, tight grip chasing to cradle his neck, touch melting stubborn resolve. Forcing eyes shut, hand catching Steve’s, palm pressed to mouth hungered taste of skin.

Breath pulled in audible short, Steve’s step closer, drawn in by Bucky’s kiss. His wanting more interrupted.

Sokolov barging nearly between them, neck straining up, hissing at Steve, “You know nothing about this place, the enemy you fight. He knows. He keeps telling you. Over and over.” A crippled finger pointing, warned away by Steve’s withering glance, “You don’t listen to him. These men will kill you. Torture you first for our entertainment. Then kill you. Go home, Captain. Your hovering over him is sickening, drawing attention. You weaken him.”

Steve’s thin smile close guarding his anger, “I know all I need to know. I trust him. Not you. I have his back. You don’t. I am not going home without him. And definitely not with you.”

Sokolov not backing down, “Then do what he asks. Get us on the train.”

His hand still wrapping Bucky’s neck, tangled in his hair, Steve’s cold stare directed at the Widow, “Trust me, I intend on getting all of us on that train.”

“Stop it, please.” Bucky’s arm snaking between them pressured push to move Steve away from her, shrugging free of his hold. Anxious gaze moving from an entrance to the Widow, “Woman, I will find a way to do this without you if you don’t back off.”

Sokolov’s muttered Cyrillic sigh, “Soldat, you’re a mess.”

Bucky returning her mutter, “Yes, not gonna disagree. Help me out for once. Watch for your friends, without waving at them.”

Facing Steve, Bucky’s fingers possessive catch of a belt loop, gaze searching his face, wanting to fall into his arms, caution holding the distance, “Rogers, you need to go. You’re not leaving me. I’ll be right behind you.”

Steve’s worry showing, furrowed brow, jaw twitch, words resigned, “Fine. You win. You win.” Digging an earpiece from his pocket, gaze dropping to his hand, long sigh before looking up to meet Bucky’s gaze. Not able or willing to hide the hint of wetness adding a sheen to his eyes, a step to bring chest brushing chest, cautious reach towards Bucky’s ear, “Let me put this in, please. Like on the jet. Only I won’t, I won’t lick your neck out here in public. Wear this so we can talk, I can talk to you. Humor me, please. I can bug the shit out of you, no answering. You can stay as quiet as you want. Give me this.”

Bucky slight wag of his head, murmuring, “I hate that thing. Lick me instead.”

Steve’s laugh overridden by his need to keep going, “I know, pal. I’d prefer the licking too, but right now, I need you to do this. Do it for me. I, I have to hear you, hear you breathe. I need to listen to you, every word, every sound.”

“Snoring? Not that I snore. That’s you.”

“Even if it’s snoring, it’s all good. Okay? For me.”

Bucky’s gaze intense studying Steve’s face, worry marring the smooth of his brow, cheeks blush of pink, curve of his mouth, the lay of his beard. Tender finger’s brush of lips, ghosted memory of his kiss, skin slipping under his palm, warmth spreading comfort, careful thumb to lashes, soft pulling the tear. Bucky nodding his agreement.

Careful brushing long hair behind an ear, Steve attempting to be discreet, gazes locked intent, soft caress of a cheek stolen. Bucky’s eyes closing, head leaning into his hand shared aching pain of want, both needing more, holding back. The earpiece nestled in place, taking longer than needed, not long enough.

Steve’s hand lingering caress of skin, cheek to neck to chest before falling away, eyes staying too long connected, ignoring the press of urgency and Sokolov’s impatient tapping of her foot.

Their moment interrupted, “Tell Barnes he owes me a new pair of sneakers,” Sam’s voice jarring.

Steve catching Bucky’s arms as he swung to bump his forehead to the wall, “Now is not a good time Sam.”

Wilson not taking the cue, “Horse shit. Fresh. I stepped in it. It’s embedded up to my laces. Squished down in so my socks are brown. Did you get that damn earbud in his ear? Barnes are you there? Fine, don’t answer me. I’ll say it anyway.”

Steve redirecting, “Sam, can you just hold that thought?”

“No. Nope I can’t. Barnes. I hate you.”

Bucky’s reach to pull the earpiece from its place, stopped short by Steve wrestling with his wrist. He mouthed, “Let it ride. He’ll get over it. For me, it’s for me.”

Natasha joining the conversation, “I’m at the station. So are the bad guys. You need to move.”

“Tasha we’re about to...” Steve’s words cut short by the return of the phone’s vibration. Finally relenting, digging it out, quick glance for the caller. Frustration crossing his features, his gaze locking on Bucky’s face.

Skeptical study of Steve, Bucky muttering, “No. Not really. Stark? That’s Stark calling you? What the fuck?” Hand raking through his hair, feet moving, quick prowling in front of Steve.

Deep breath pulled in Steve mumbling “He’ll never stop, I need to answer this,” abrupt swipe to take the call, “Tony, I’m a bit busy here.”

Stark’s voice loud enough for Bucky to hear making steps stumble, “Ross? Is that you?”

“No. Not Ross. It’s me, Steve. You know damn well it’s me.”

Continuing to be loud, “Not Ross? You know he gets around right? So, Rogers. Well, this is awkward. Must have butt dialed you by mistake.”

Steve countering, “You don’t carry your phone in your back pocket.”

Bucky’s pacing stopped short, “How the hell do you know that?”

Tony’s voice lowering, verging closer to genuine, “You’re with him aren’t you? He lied to me. He broke my jet. He’s there isn’t he?”

Steve watching Bucky watching him, “Yes, I ran into him in a public restroom. What a coincidence. Gotta go.”

Tony cut in, “Rogers.” The pause long enough telling Steve, the call was more than a mistake or a taunt, Stark’s words chosen carefully, “Your boy. His mission. Still has the skills I take it? Tell him something for me. He owes me a jet.”

Steve’s gaze raking over the crowd, time pressing, “He’s aware of that. I’ve gotta go.”

Tony jumping in, “One more thing. Tell him. When he takes the shot. Don’t miss.”

Steve’s answer coming after Stark hung up, “He won’t. We won’t.” No time left to process Stark’s cryptic message, Steve moving towards Sokolov, hand on her back, hurried steps heading to their right.

Bucky pulling the hood over his head, three steps following Steve, then veering to his left, irritated mumble, “He’s still calling you. I hate him too. You can tell him that when you, you know, next time you two chat.” Sudden stop, hand to his ear, “Is Stark on here? I don’t want him in my ear. I’ve got enough going on in my head, I do not need him in there too.”

Steve still moving forward, determined stride across the terminal’s expanse, “No Stark. Just us. You, me, Nat, and Sam. We’re heading for that last ticket booth. Buck, don’t get killed.” Hand on Sokolov’s shoulder, gesture appearing protective, fingers dug tight around bone, driving her forward. Feigned sightseeing glances, ranging over the building and doors and crowd, constant checking on Bucky as he headed far beyond his reach.

Quick pace, eyes averted, Bucky still taking in the bustling crowd, furtive glances up, left then right, over his shoulder, counting internal not an outlet for his anxiety but an accounting of his pursuers. Quiet whisper meant for the team, “I count three, no, not three, plus one, three plus one.”

Sam’s irritation still evident, “Man, you have got to work past this number thing, Barnes.”

“Not now, Sam.” Steve defense a whisper as he and Sokolov settled in the ticket line.

Bucky arguing, “No. you don’t get it. Three plus one. Three at the entrance to the platform, one in the middle. No hair, short, gun under his coat, see one see them all. Same, always the same.”

Voice trailing off, Bucky’s bold stride carrying him direct, hard stop behind the bald-headed man, metal arm sudden wrapping his neck, tight enough to jerk a body close, not enough to cut his air completely. Flesh hand quick stripping the gun, safety off, barrel jammed deep painful under the ribs. The man too startled and slow to offer anything more than a huffed grunt; weak flailing of his hands, eyes bulging, breaths gasping desperate.

Metal fingers raking white imprints on fatty flesh, Russian growled in an ear, Bucky’s breath hot against his skin, “Uncle, so good to see you. We’re late. Let’s get on the train, shall we? Just you and I, sorry none of your friends are invited.”

A knee jammed sharp into the man’s thigh, forced steps forward, “We’ll sing songs of the Volga, get drunk on the best Vodka, stuff ourselves with fish pie and puke our guts out in the morning. Or I can relieve you of your guts right here. I prefer not killing you, but you should know, you will not be my first. Your choice.”

Bucky and the balding man awkward shuffling, ragged gait heading for the platform doorway. Stopping short, facing three men, features darkened by serious focus, task at hand, bringing down the Soldier.

Stalemate holding for seconds. One brandishing a confident smirk uncovering his weapon, direct threat aimed at Bucky’s hostage. Numbers running quick in this thoughts, counting rhythmic internal, finger’s caress of the trigger, picturing slow motion, bald man’s body meant as cover, step around his falling corpse, metal arm blocking, time enough to take at least one, maybe two. Aggressive steps forward, risking the third one’s accurate aim. Three steps closer, bullet to the brain. Less than thirty seconds. Done and done.

Deep breath pulled in, Bucky making his decision, gun slipping from it’s nestled fleshy spot, commitment made. Stopped short when bodies jerked erratic. Blue haze electric spark chasing across the falling men, twitching where they fell, sprawled disparate along the wooden platform.  
  
Bucky staring uncertain at first, understanding coming clear; Romanova, eyebrow raised, visible once the wall of his opponents hit the ground. Her wide-stance pose three feet from the end of the train starting its slow staggering departure.

Crooked smile not held back, “Barnes. Nice to see you. Shall we head for Moscow?"

Bucky mumbling defensive as he shoved the bald man to the ground, "I had this, you know, I had this."


	19. Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The train, for Bucky, has more than one memory.

Bucky remembered their hands. Brutal taught deference, to keep his gaze averted, a demand expected as Hydra’s possession. Their hands taking his focus each encounter over the years; soldier, handler, keeper, Architect.  
  
Calloused, dirt-encrusted rough dragging him forward, reminders of his bloodied pain. Slender-fingered delicate; a craved tender touch morphed to aching shame. Thin-boned hand’s stroke of hair or cheek, rare kindness welcomed. Inevitable betrayal, sharp slap, pulled hair, angered grip of flesh; his flinch from her touch rewarded with an even harsher punishment. Memory wiped, hope stolen cyclic. Learning it was easier to give in.  
  
White shirt, crisp ironed lines, dark strips of suspenders flanking a swatch of a dull-colored tie; tucked efficient to rest between the buttons. The man smelling faint of wool and smoke and a delicate perfumed scent. Fingers too short for the size of his hands, pasty white, shining clean, half-moon line, the nails clipped precise matching fingertip to fingertip.  
  
The woman standing equal at the man’s side; wide stance, square shoulders, clothing a tailored mimic of the man. Arms folded holding a stun prod, loving caress of the Widow’s weapon of control.  
  
Bucky kneeling fevered before Mother and the man, first mission report taking priority over wounds left unattended. Eyes darting wary from brown shined shoes to the man’s reach for his face. Dark ink of a crown-shaped tattoo precisely marked on his index finger; made more distinct by the bright white of the skin. A detail etched forever in his memory.  
  
The man’s fleshy softness stealing affection from his cheek, slipping insidious to tight cradle his throat. A deep-hissed demand for an accounting; why the children were dead, why their Soldier was defeated by an old man and his wife.  
  
Bucky’s drawn in breath to speak cut short; accosting wide-palmed full taking of his mouth, covering his nostrils, head tugged back, pressed choking against the man’s groin. Air slow-strangled from his lungs, panic demanding his reach to fight the hold, warned off by the fired start of the Widow’s prod.  
  
Eyes watered with the fading of his vision to hazy darkness sounds falling dull, body tension giving way to weakness as his lungs began to fail. Metal hand daring their punishment, last effort vice-grip of the man’s wrist, twisting wrench to tear the smothering hand from his face. Air deep gulped in, feeding the burning ache in his chest, body choking scrambling forward and free of his grip.  
  
Head bowed, ragged gasps for air, Bucky’s staggered fight to rise knocked down repeated by the searing electric chase of the Widow’s stun. Dark eyes sparkling brighter watching him writhe at her feet, her pleasure caught in the corner of his eye.  
  
Gritted teeth, tongue bit bloody, Bucky failing to keep his scream from her ears. Throat rasping raw with the sound of his own voice mingled indeterminate with the man’s aching wail.  
  
Mother’s terse smile etched into his vision as the shock raced unrelenting; her final thrust deep plunged into his chest, driving him into the seizure that wracked his body tense. Thoughts scrambled flailing as she stole away his consciousness; a shadowed figure lingered, a blond boy silent standing near as he drifted off into the darkness.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

Skin sticky wet, blood congealed mixed with sweat, the aftermath leaving Bucky curled fetal on the floor. Pain pulled tears drying tight to cheeks, bodily functions lost in the wake of the seizures. Soldier’s boots scuffled heavy-footed around his body, rough lift to pull him from the room, trailing blood and sweat and piss in his wake.  
  
Light and footing changing as they dragged his weakened limbs, harsh-electric glow to blinding sun, ending in damp heated darkness. Rough tossed to a splintered wooden floor, metal bars surrounding, door clanged shut. Graveled laughter fading as the soldiers walked away from his claustrophobic cell. Head pressed to find comfort against the cold steel bars, dirt choking cough shaking his body. Time passing uncertain, lulled by the rhythmic vibration of the train’s rumbled passing.  
  
Awareness flirting elusive interrupted by a gentle press against his cheek. Eyes trying to focus, scanning darkened walls, thick bars holding him in. Gaze catching shadowed movement in yellowed light filtered by a single hazy pane of glass. Features faded by his vision and the dim-lit space, coming more apparent with the slow blink of waking; ragged dressed children kneeling lined outside his cell.  
  
One girl braver than the rest, lanky bare legs, cascading dark curls near to hiding the green of her eyes; tenuous reach to brush bloodied hair from his face. No words spoken, knowing glances only passed among his audience. A rag dipped in scant water, pressed against his lips, dragged cautious to his forehead, eyes falling shut at the mercy of her kindness.  
  
Time passing again, serum doing it’s work healing the wounds; steadying hand on the bar, slow struggle to his knees, forehead to hard metal waiting out the spinning in his head. Eyes startled open with a touch to his hair, small hand fleeting shake, extended with an offer of a morsel of bread. A dark-haired boy, thin-arms, sunken chest, firm grasping of his metal wrist sending a shudder hard to control. The bread pushed furtive and quick into his palm before the child silent fell back into the sea of still-sitting bodies filling the train’s freight car.  
  
Comforting rhythmic motion slow rolling to a jerking halt; the scuffle of doors opening, sunlight streaming in, casting harsh shadows as the children scattered before the slow-paced entrance of brown shined shoes. Bucky sitting braced in the corner of his cage, white pasty hand passing eye level, the man’s cane cracked across the back of a child too slow to move, his foot kicking another.  
  
Slow climb to his feet, palms wrapping the bars, Bucky studying the eyes of his companions. Fear scurried deeper for most, some with tears quick wiped away, some defiant paying the price.  
  
The man grabbed a tall, thin girl pulling her unwilling from the crowd to stop before his cell. Arm cast held heavy in a sling, the crown-tattooed finger rough slipping unwanted through dark curled hair. Cyrillic words taunting “Wouldn’t you like a piece of this Soldat? Soft and young.” Intruding caress of her body, cruel curled mouth pressed to her skin. Bucky silent calculated his reach, too far for even his strength, hands tightening down, faint creak of the iron’s beginning to give, stopped by the stun prod’s rattle of the bars inches from his face.  
  
The Widow stepped forward, her mouth a thin-lined smirk, “He prefers boys. Only boys for him," before striding away.  
  
Metal hand darting forward, fingertip's graze of a dark tweed coat, the man not acknowledging Bucky’s straining reach. Quick paced exit; thin girl with curled brown hair stumbling along beside him. Pleading look over her shoulder, Bucky’s gaze connecting with deep green eyes; veil lifted for a second, fears shared fleeting before she disappeared wrapped unwilling in the man’s possessive hold.  
  
  
First memory of the Architect burned permanent in his brain.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

  
  
  
_“You can’t stand here stuck in the doorway, fear-gripping the handle for six days as we speed onward to your certain submission, abuse, torture culminating in death.”_  
  
Bucky soft groaned, slow rocking his forehead pressed to the door’s window. Staring down, metal palm tight locked on the steel handle, seconds forming minutes, panic holding feet still, thoughts fast drowning in the past.  
  
_“The provodnitsa, those hard-working women of the train will get suspicious.”_  
  
Focus scattering wide, rush of the now dragging history forward; lurched movement beneath his feet, train’s wheels rolling, speed building incessant. Rhythmic clicks and groans of an aging carriage, rail seams passed repetitive, measured reminder of moving towards his inevitable fate. Rumbling vibrations chasing up tense muscles; soles to hips to chest settling as a throbbing at the back of his head.  
  
_“The train was your brilliant plan. What were you expecting?”_  
  
Pulled in ragged breath, full-body sweat breaking; mind’s eye caught inescapable, dark haunting gap wide-torn open in a train car’s wall, white mountains racing past. Frigid air swirling ghosted push, body still living in the pain, deflected blast lifting his weight, rag-doll powerless, tossed into the abyss. Steve’s reaching fingertips not connecting with his desperate outstretched hand.  
  
Squeezing eyes shut, fight to shove the vision aside, cheek pressed to pane’s coldness, vain attempt to quell anxiety’s heated flush of his skin.  
  
_“Get your shit together,_ _Soldat._ _You’ve been on plenty of trains since that time the good Captain dropped you into Hydra’s hands.”_  
  
Bucky’s voice rasping dry, “Nope. He didn’t do that,” same answer internal every time. Holding close the doubt sitting in the shadows, given a hint of life with his fatigue.  
  
_“Mother didn’t shove you off the train. She tried her best to show you, she wouldn’t let you fall. You do remember her lessons?”_  
  
“Fuck you. Fuck her,” Bucky’s words mumbled dry thickness. Slow push to take a cautious glance up, inviting a heated nauseated spin spreading head to gut. Eyes slammed shut, forehead to cold metal, Cyrillic words groaned for himself, “Get your shit together, Soldat.”  
  
Minutes passing stuck, thoughts slow grasp of the real, memory’s reminder of what he’d find behind his back. Not yet willing to turn to face six days on the third class coach. Packed bodies hanging wetness in the air, sweat, and breath clinging tenacious, jolting change from arctic winds left behind. Mingling odors dragging memories forward in his brain, spiced and sweet and sour; thickened weighted diesel, body odors putrid.  
  
Carriers overfilled, humanity pressed in close, cramped berths one on top of the other, four on one side, two across the tiny aisle. The car’s heat fighting the cold air edging the glass of doors and windows.  
  
Head throbbing, rhythmic rattling wheels the train building speed out across the still frozen landscape of Far East Russia. Cacophony of voices, deep rumbled laughs, lilting chatter, hunger sending a baby’s wail to pierce sharp pain into his hearing.  
  
_“Babies crying in their mother’s arms. You remember this. Mercy begged, tears flowing, you not giving a shit.”_  
  
“I gave a shit. I give a... What the fuck is happening?” Full body flush of sweat, Bucky forcing eyes open, staring at his boots, breath catching shallow and ragged.  
  
_“These people know what you did. They see your guilt. Hydra’s hand out in the open. Like you belong in their midst.”_  
  
“Nope. Not true. Knock it off,” Metal hand quick hidden in his pocket, taking the Voice’s mocking, literal reminder.  
  
_“Listen to them. Your language skills are damn near perfect, no matter what lies you fed Mother. Can you hear them? Talking about you. They feared you once; haunted their children’s nightmares. Now listen to them, laughing at you.”_  
  
“They can laugh. I don’t care. Better that, than be afraid of me.” Bucky’s forced roll of his head, body following reluctant; letting his back lean heavy against the door, facing the long, crowded aisle, far end not visible from where he stood.  
  
_“You traded a jet for --- this? A platzkartnyy? Let me list the ways that this is wrong: Close quarter bodily functions. Six days with close quarter bodily functions. Six days with close quarter bodily functions while being pursued by that ragtag bunch of losers calling themselves the last of Hydra. Nothing but a gaggle of Vory wannabe's.”_  
  
“Yeah, well, losers that have guns. And knives. Wannabe’s or not.” Sharp tremor chasing across his body, deep, steadying breath, clear vision tunneling down, bright closing into dark.  
  
Shadowed figure hovering, Romanova’s voice close, “Barnes, you’re looking a bit green, or blue, I’m not sure in this light.”  
  
Red hair wrapped in black, memories darting forward, sharp ghosted sting where her fingers brushed his cheek. Shuddering jerk to pull away.  
  
_“Widow’s bite Soldat. Doesn’t even need her venom, just fingers to your flesh.”_  
  
Wilson’s words cracked and distant, “What the hell do the numbers mean. I do not want to be wandering all over Moscow with my ratty scrap of paper doing my lost tourist impression.”  
  
Bucky’s absent muttered answer, “No. Forget about the numbers.”  
  
Empty gut rolling, bile teasing the back of his throat, eyes closed fight to steady the spin of head and belly.  
  
_“What next? Puking? You’re pathetic, Soldat. A few sweaty bodies, staring at you. Talking about you and you’re going to toss your stomach bile. You’ve caused it all; blood and guts, gunpowder and gasoline, piss and...”_  
  
“Enough. I get it. Not gonna puke.” Bucky letting his head drop chin close to chest, eyes tight shut, knees weak, slow slipping down the door; fighting his fall.  
  
Flesh hand blind reach trying to steady himself, catching something soft, fingers ratcheting down, tighter grip on Romanova’s arm.  
  
Her words near his ear, “Come on Barnes. You need to sit down.”  
  
Bucky’s answer rapid and irritated, “Nope. It’s just the heat, the people. Everyone just needs to stop talking. Everyone, real and imagined, needs to shut the fuck up.”  
  
“Buck, I need you to focus.” Steve’s voice interceding, steady and firm in his ear.  
  
“Except you --- Steve. You --- keep talking.” Quick release of Romanova, hands braced on his knees, deep held breath, letting the sound of Steve’s voice wash over him.  
  
“I’m listening, remember, we can hear one another. I’m on the train. I know you don’t want us to be seen together. We don’t need to be close, but, I need to be able to see you.”  
  
Voice a cracked whisper, “Steve? You’re here?” A push to raise his head, eyes opened slow, focused close study of his thumb’s golden grooves trying to quiet the nausea, “Right, supposed to be here. Not really but here we are. Russia.”  
  
Steve adding, “Yup. Here we are. On a train to Moscow. Stay put, I’m coming to you.”  
  
“No. I’ll find you.” Deep breaths pulled in, long and slow, pounding in his head, dulled down allowing the sounds of passengers to grate familiar in his hearing. Garbled and loud, lilting and soft, languages heard and spoken over his years as the Soldier, voices from his past turning real.  
  
Bucky pulling his sleeve across his face, wiping aside the sweat, head raised, “Where are you? Is she with you? Did she hurt you?” Blinking eyes to clear his focus, searching the passenger car, narrow aisle crowding in, far end disappearing into a tangle of swaying bodies.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

Steve’s answer, “Car three. Berths four and five. How you doing?”  
  
Bucky’s sarcasm a mumbled trailing off, “Yup. Peachy. Just sweat, and noise and stench, and rocking. Maybe a, you know, a flash of, whatever you call it, the past. Right and panic. I’m good. All good.”  
  
“Remember, I’m not far away. Tasha, don’t leave him.” Steve’s deep breath in slow exhaled, head laid back to the seat settling the rush of boarding the train wrangling Sokolov. Listening to the sound of Bucky's voice.  
  
Reluctant tugging the old passport from his jacket, cautious fingered opening to stare at the man that looked like himself. Memory storing away the conductor’s long look at the picture. Her thumb pulled firm across the menacing red symbol in the corner, wary exam of the photo held close to his face, scrutinizing gaze slow crossing one to the other and back; studied comparison, the First Handler to Steve.  
  
Eyes closed, stealing seconds to quiet the ache gripping his chest; replaying minutes earlier. The passport handed back, no further questions, approval given with a terse smile and a nod. The man in the faded image believed to be him. Thoughts falling back to Bucky’s remorseful confession. Hydra’s First Handler, broad-shouldered, blond hair, blue-eyed replacement for himself, fooling Bucky’s tortured mind, thinking Steve had survived the plane’s icy crash, falling for their ploy. The ache of Bucky’s regret playing out every day in a look or a word. Never far from his mind.  
  
“Uncanny isn’t it?” Sokolov’s comment pulling his gaze towards her, “It took months for us to find him, your doppelganger. Not long to fool Soldat though. He was distraught, pathetic, starving himself over your death. Foolish waste. We’d invested time, research, our future; too much to let him kill himself over what he thought was love.”  
  
Steve’s cold stare locked on the Widow sitting direct across, his knees too close to touching hers in the confined berth space. Body cramped claustrophobic, air choked with her presence; red flush of anger taking his skin, finger’s twitch to reach for her throat to quiet her mocking. Hand held back by one thought, Bucky’s need for his staying in control.  
  
Forced steadiness in his tone, “Ancient history, remember? You entertained me with the video of your Handler not that long ago. You’re repeating yourself, not a good sign.” Abrupt move to tuck the passport away, not breaking from their stare.  
  
Thin smile, hands folding in her lap, feet not touching the floor, dark eyes a window on deeper malice brimming, “I didn’t forget our time together at the silo. You’re a hard man to make scream. Not like him. He finds his soul in the pain.”  
  
Shadowed memories of his tortured encounter with the Widow, her careful laid taunts lurching forward in Steve’s consciousness. Video evidence of Bucky’s life in the hands of Hydra. Images flashing uncontrolled in his mind; Bucky’s naked skin caressed by a stranger’s hand, the voice he’d know in the darkest of dreams, turned raw and ragged by the screams she dragged from his body.  
  
One memory outstripping all others; grip of shame claiming Bucky’s features as he stood next to Steve in the torture chamber, watching his Hydra story playing out around the room. Bucky’s sidelong regretful glance, humiliation burrowing deep before Steve’s eyes, wrapping insidious roots around their lives.  
  
Rage of words clamoring to his throat, muscled twitch of his jaw hidden by the beard, fingers gripping seat’s edge, pink skin fading pale to white. Thoughts clinging determined to his comfort, memory’s feel of Bucky’s skin, body held close. Hard swallow, lashing response dragged back from the brink, hands near to tearing through the cushioned seat, low voiced declaration, “You’re only alive because I deferred to what he wanted. Once. Your day will come, and I will be there, waiting.”  
  
Sokolov laughed sharp and humorless, “Is Captain America threatening me?”  
  
“Not Captain anymore. Not a threat --- more of a guarantee.”  
  
Icy stares holding, Steve’s attention pulled by Bucky’s hesitant voice in his ear, “Ah, Rogers, I hear you. What you said to her. Listen, I explicitly instructed you not to talk to her, and I can hear you talking to her. I’m asking nicely. Stop it.”  
  
“We’re all good here, no worries. Are you with Tasha?” Body tension slipping a hair, tone betraying his worry.  
  
Bucky’s answer drowned out by a noisy interruption. Tall, lanky man, backpack slung over one arm, duffle bag resembling a four-foot sausage, heavy dropped on the bench next to Steve. Short blonde-haired woman, chubby child on her hip following with at least three bags adorning her body, a dramatic flourished flop on the seat next to the Widow.  
  
Greetings offered all the way around, handshakes exchanged, nods and stumbled words of limited English. Quick Cyrillic conversation springing up, the man gesturing enthusiastic, the woman’s laugh grating loud. Sokolov launching into their banter fingered toying with the child, cooed soft noises, demeanor projecting grandmotherly benign. Steve sitting back, taking in the scene, deceptively festive and kind, broken by her turn towards him. The curve of her smile shifting a trace harder, glimpse of cold in her eyes, as she murmured, “Children are a precious commodity, Captain.”  
  
Angling towards the window, no notice of the quick passing landscape, bright colored houses, distant trees, open expanse dark earth spotted white. Steve’s voice low, words meant for Bucky, not wanting the others to hear, “Buck, listen to me. We have company. Not bad, just berth-mates.” Deep breath pulled in, slow released, forehead laid to cold glass, “I know, I can tell that Voice just kicked in. I can hear it, not it, I mean.” Slow blink of frustration, “So listen to me. I know you haven’t slept in days. You’re tired, hungry.”  
  
Bucky interrupting, “Nothing new.”  
  
Steve pushing on, “I get it,” wanting to say more, fighting the urge to leave the Widow behind, search every car, finding Bucky, “Okay, the only voice you listen to now is mine. Got it?”  
  
Rasped whisper, Bucky’s answer nearly drowned out by the noise of the train, “Your voice. Only your voice. I promise.”  
  
A not hidden worry in Steve’s tone, “Tasha, stick to him.”  
  
Natasha reassuring, “Like cat hair.”  
  
Berth-mates passing a bottle, food pulled out, universal gestures of sharing, Steve’s words faked happy, directed towards Sokolov, meant for Bucky as a message, “Here we are, Auntie Gieta, our dream vacation. Trans-Siberian Railway! Just what we needed, you, me and a family of three.”  
  
Bucky’s grousing, “Auntie Gieta? Great, now she’s our aunt. Not exactly my dream vacation maybe it’s yours,” bringing a smile to Steve’s face. Rustle of him moving, long staggered sigh, “I need to take my meds. That’s what I need. And you. I need you. What I have is Romanova, a handful of pills and a couple of dried raisins stuck to the bottom of my backpack. Not the same as you...”  
  
Steve’s whispered answer, “Soon, pal, soon.”

  
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

  
  
“What the hell. Get out of here,” Bucky fighting to shove the bathroom door shut, keeping Romanova out, her body straddling the threshold, “Barging into the bathroom with me?” His pushing her shoulder, her ducking from his hand, his knee to the door, “Like I’m some three-year-old needing supervision. I have to piss. Get out.”  
  
Natasha grabbing the sink’s edge, fighting his push, “No you don’t. You haven’t had any water in a week, you don’t have any piss in you.”  
  
Bucky prying fingers loose, “You have no idea about my water intake or my ability to urinate. Get the fuck out.”  
  
Her arm sliding under his backpack’s strap, quick wrap to hold on, “Nope, I am doing exactly what Steve wanted. Sticking with you.”  
  
“I’m not going to sneak out the toilet hole,” Bucky grabbed her wrist, unwrapping her arm, “This is too strange, even for me, or you.”  
  
Her scrambling grab of Steve’s borrowed sweater, pulling on the knit, “No. I’m in. We need to talk.”  
  
Bucky working to untangle her hold, voice a rising squeak at the end, “This is Steve’s, you’re ruining it.” A full shouldered lean into the door as their fingers wrestled, slapping and twisting in the weave.  
  
Romanova abandoning their finger fight, grabbing the sink again, pinned between the door’s edge and its frame, hissing, “Let me in, people are watching us.”  
  
Not missing a beat, Bucky’s temple pressed to the door, an inch from her face, “Yup because the bathroom is for one person. One. Not two. One.”  
  
“Barnes, damn it,” Romanova’s grunted air huffed short when his knee jammed against the door, “You’re crushing me.”  
  
Bucky stopping abrupt, watching her breathe panting the pain. Irritation giving way to concern, features wearing his regret. Sudden step back, releasing the door, a hand catching her arm as she stumbled inside. Quick release when she righted herself.  
  
Heel shooting back to slam the door shut, Natasha leaned knees bent, back pressed to the wall, tossing her head to clear hair from her eyes.  
  
Bucky’s step forward, claiming the space, a glared staring challenge, “What are you gonna do? Pull my pants down for me?”  
  
“I can if you need that kind of help,” Natasha pushing up, standing toe-to-toe, a look meeting his glare.  
  
Bucky’s thoughts playing out across his face, determined morphing to worried ending with confused. Steps falling away, back pressed to the wall, eyeing her suspicious, “Are you coming on to me? No. You can’t be?” Feet needing to move, anxiety released, not enough room in the tiny space. Fidgeting steps, hands raking his hair; settled retreat to the far corner from the door, a finger deliberate pointed, “You know he’s listening. He knows. Steve? Are you listening to this?” Ragged breath, whispered, “Romanova’s in here --- with me --- tiny space. Damn.”  
  
Natasha stepped to the sink, water soaking a paper towel, “Barnes, stop babbling and sit down. You’ve got blood on your head, your hair’s got knots in it. You look like something Baba Yaga dragged in. Let’s get you cleaned up before we march through sixteen cars packed with people.”  
  
Slight wag of his head, mocking tone, “Funny. Russian jokes, nice. Like I want to make jokes about Russia.”  
  
Natasha's sharp point at the toilet a command, “Sit down. Don’t you have medications to take?”  
  
Bucky's eyes narrowing, “Right. Now you’re saying I’m crazy aren’t you?”  
  
Arms crossed, Natasha leaned against the sink, “No. That’s pejorative. I’m saying you’re a mess. That’s different.”  
  
Bucky staring long and hard before his boot toe dropped the toilet seat, a wary step to settle; backpack tugged from his back to his lap, digging out the bottles.  
  
Romanova’s first attempt to pull the snarls from his hair aborted when he ducked his head from her hand, "Stop moving.”  
  
Bucky bobbing and weaving from her touch, “Only Steve does that.”  
  
Soft crooked smile, “Steve brushes your hair?”  
  
Quick deflection, “No. I didn’t say that.”  
  
“Yes, you did.” Arms crossing again, an eyebrow raised.  
  
“No. No, he doesn’t. Never mind what I said.”  
  
Acknowledging nod, their argument falling away. Natasha’s careful approach, gentle cleaning of the wound, fingers cautious pulling strands of hair, untangling the knots.  
  
Bucky distracted, reading each pill bottle label; not ducking from her touch.  
  
Romanova’s Cyrillic words breaking their silence, “When are you going to tell him the truth?”  
  
Bucky’s absent response, focus on the pills, matching her Russian, “What truth?”  
  
“Where you’re going,” Cautious tugging loose the snarled hair.  
  
“Sure. Moscow. Happy?” Scooping water from the faucet.  
  
Natasha pressing, “Who’s your target?”  
  
Second pill tossed in his mouth, “Is this the question of the day game?” Water pulled from his hand, “Cuz you don’t get to be in that game.”  
  
“I have no idea what that is, but Steve needs to know who you’re going after.”  
  
“Who I’m after?” The pause seeming stubborn, Bucky letting history revisit, the shudder chasing across his skin hidden with a roll of his shoulder and a deep breath pulled in, ragged sighed release, words muttered quiet, “Doesn’t matter. He won’t be anywhere near him. I’ll know the target, I’ll know him. Time, time doesn’t erase that.”  
  
Natasha studying the lines of his face gaze distant staring lost in the past. Opting not to push, switching to ask, “And what you said back at the barn?”  
  
Last pill popped in his mouth, chased down with a handful of water, “You were there for all of six seconds. What did I say?”  
  
“Lubov moya.”  
  
Bucky ducking his head, hair pulled from her touch, “You’re crazy. I never said that.”  
  
“I heard it. Steve deserves to know how you feel.”  
  
“He knows how I feel.” Bucky’s sudden rise, agitated need to move, backpack landing on the floor. Both bending to retrieve it heads near bumping, awkward reaching one then the other.  
  
Natasha stepping back, hands in the air, “Barnes you’re going after the head of the snake. You should consider telling him the truth.”  
  
Backpack pulled up, tossed onto his back, anger building, “Snake? Not a snake. Hydra. Many heads. Many many heads. Many.”  
  
“Tell him how you feel.”  
  
Bucky lunging taking her space, chest pressed to chest; forcing her back. Metal hand shooting forward close passing her cheek, near to shattering the mirror, words growled next to her ear, “He fucks me, he knows how I feel.”  
  
Natasha’s voice remaining steady, “Are you trying to shock me? Not gonna happen.”  
  
Gaze dropping to her fist buried in his belly, stun dart glowing electric blue, “You’re the one trying to shock people. Don’t tell me how to be with him. It’s not your business.”  
  
Tilt of her head, eyebrow raised, “I care about him and you.”  
  
Bucky not able to hide the tremor, his words rasping raw, “Don’t. Don’t fucking care about me. You can care about him. Not me.”  
  
“Fine. I’ll care about him,” hand falling away.  
  
Steps taken, distracted pace, Bucky turned to press tight into the corner, “Not too much though. He’s still mine.” Metal finger accusing point, “So stay away,” hand pulled back, fingers catching his hair, “No, wait. What are we talking about? Yes. Mine, he’s mine. You stay away.” Disorganized wave of his hand, “You know, like that.”  
  
Natasha pushing off the sink, “Barnes, You need to eat something. And sleep, definitely sleep.”  
  
Bucky’s voice rising, “You are not my mother.”  
  
Steve’s voice cutting in, firm worry clear, “Should I be concerned that the two of you are arguing loudly and with great enthusiasm in Russian? Is it a good thing, a bad thing, getting in character? Are you in trouble? Do I need to come find you?”  
  
Not missing a beat, Cyrillic words abandoned, Bucky ranting on, “You are not my mother. I have what, three, four? I’ve lost count. I have no idea, anymore.” Pulling straps tight, awkward tug on the door, stubbing his toe; three tries to yank it open; a march out into the aisle, Romanova close following.  
  
Steve adding, “Buck enough. Stop calling her that, stop calling everyone that.”  
  
Natasha close behind, “Steve, Maybe you two should meet up. The dining car. We’ll head your way. I’ll take over with Sokolov. You meet Barnes, make him eat something. He’s cranky.”

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

  
  
“That’s his baseline.” Sam’s weighing in a crackled voice lost across the comms drowned out by aberrant noise and Bucky’s running commentary ending with “Fuck you.”  
  
“I rest my case.” Sam muttering with self-righteous confidence as he maneuvered the Quinjet, cloaking in full force, riding inches close to the varied Russian landscape.  
  
Quick call to Steve, avoiding the comms, an agreed-upon approach, “Cap, on my way. ETA Moscow, seventeen hours and fifty-two minutes. I’ll keep you posted. So, what’s the Russian equivalent of a Snickers Bar? Buy one for him. On my tab. Not that it’ll make a difference. Just don’t tell him I bought it. No sense ruining a perfect relationship.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> provodnitsa: female train conductors  
> platzkartnyy: third-class train on the Trans-Siberian Railway  
> Vory: Russian criminal gangs  
> Baba Yaga: In Slavic folklore, Baba Yaga (Russian: Баба Яга) is a supernatural being (or one of a trio of sisters of the same name) who appears as a deformed and/or ferocious-looking woman.


	20. Drowning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My heartfelt apologies for taking so long in posting this chapter. Real life, long hours at work, stress, and self-doubt all played a role and for that, I am very sorry. This story and the Boys are on my mind every day. I greatly appreciate your following along. Thank you so very much! ❤️️

Steve buoyant-floating, salted water lapping chin to belly to toes. Head tilt subtle, hearing submerged, taunted words echoed from childhood days muddied gray in the Atlantic’s cold embrace. Frail body set free, weight carried at the mercy of undercurrent’s tow. Sun-burned red tinged vision behind eyelids scrunched shut, scattered thoughts turning inward, pain deep-buried released upon the waves.  
  
The ocean cradling his body, lulled sense of peace, stealing his awareness, gentle carried farther from the shore. Thoughts wandering placid, mind’s eye seeing Bucky, snarked words wrapped in affection, mouth curved in a smirk not ever forgotten.  
  
Gut twinge a reminder, chest fleeting tight with hidden want, Steve keeping close his unspoken secret; time and society not accepting. Bucky’s warning spoken heated in shared nights close to spilling his truth, dared intimacy redirected, “Nope, Stevie, we can’t do this.” Consoled by Bucky’s eyes, telling a different story than the words shutting him down.  
  
Steve drifting lost surrounded by his dreams, oblivious to the tide pulling him under, wrapped silent in the water muting Bucky’s panicked screams.  
  
Head slipping beneath rolling waves, arms reflexive flail, desperate reaching for the brightest light shimmering above his head. Breath tightening his chest, gasped air replaced by ocean, even frail weight dragging him down. Vision fading darker with dying effort to reach the surface. Mind’s scrambled comfort finding Bucky, regret’s ache embraced for not taking what he desired, time running out.  
  
Steve’s fight slipping away, overcome by salted water’s strength; last thought, last image grasped, gray eyes sorrowed watching him drown.  
  
Dark silence jolted sudden. Two flesh hands grabbing his waist, hauling bodies close, lifting weight heavy with the water’s owning. Hard thrust against his stomach, forcing air and ocean out. Anxious voice buried in the murk of his senses, “Damn Rogers, I nearly lost you.” Bucky’s arm wrapping possessive around his chest. Steve taking his embrace, together tossed like weightless flotsam. Bucky’s legs kicking defiant, angered determined against the tow, brawling the ocean’s power to save Steve’s life.  
  
  
Two boys carried on, the event falling to old stories of adventure; Bucky smirking, bicep flexed in sleeveless T-shirt, “Who’s your hero? I saved your scrawny ass.” Words sounding harsh, teased in the night; countered by his hunger, broad shoulders nestled to thin chest, feet tugging legs entangled. Insistent pull on Steve to wrap him tight bound from behind, both falling asleep safe in their embrace.  
  
Brush with drowning a faded memory until after Bucky’s fall. Steve haunted by that day, dragged from the ocean’s rightful hold by Bucky’s saving fight. Steve reliving outstretched hands, desperate finger’s reach, inches apart. Replaying body’s memory, time standing still, same voice repeating, waking and in dreams “Could have reached him, let him fall, you could’ve tried harder.” Image clear across the years, taking sleep and dreams, regardless of the ice; Bucky slipping from his fingers. Guilt creeping relentless filling in the void.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

  
  
Steve watching Bucky’s jaw set, eyes wide, near to innocent conviction. Short distance holding them apart, the empty space an abyss owning the deep ache in his chest. Dutifully obeying heart-wrenching demands, reluctant keeping his distance.  
  
“I gave my word.” Bucky’s slow shake of his head, “Well, a promise,” undermining his insistence, “No, wait. I made a deal, sort of?” Apologetic shrug visible despite the two glass-windowed doors and six wide feet of separation. Staring at Steve across the connector compartment between train cars. The rattle nearly drowning words muttered distant through the comms, “I need to make good on it, whatever it is.”  
  
Attempt at steady, Steve challenging, “A promise, not your word. A deal, maybe? With your tormentor? You feel some kind of obligation?” Exasperation barely hidden, “You made a deal with the woman who tortured you.” Face and tone struggling neutral, his hand out of sight, mangling the door handle. Voice deep cracking, “That does not count.”  
  
“That doesn’t make it any less my word, promise, you know, obligation.” Bucky’s finality contradicting his reach. Flesh hand pressing the glass, gestured caress of Steve’s cheek; eyes telling what he’d take if he were closer.  
  
Leaning to accept the ghosted touch, Steve not finding comfort in the cold of the window, firm reminder, “She’s using you.”  
  
Bucky’s answer taking too long, sounding uncertain, “I’m using her right back.”  
  
Steve matching Bucky’s hand on the glass despite the wide divide, “Buck come on. You haven’t eaten in days, meet me in the dining car. Just the two of us.”  
  
Faint nod of agreement, “Sure, okay,” seconds later reneging, “After I do this. I promise.”  
  
Steve’s voice edging hard, “You don’t owe her anything.”  
  
Gaze wandering, history stealing Bucky’s focus, “I’ve gone hungry before, days, weeks, longer, I’m not even sure. Not like they dragged me to the shrimp bar or we ate burgers and fries every night.” Bucky’s eyes becoming brighter, connected with Steve, hint of a smile, “Not like us, like that place back home. You remember that? I made you lick my fingers.” Forehead pressing the glass, a laugh flirting nervous, whispering,” I kissed you. Remember?” Teeth pulling his lip, single finger tracing the glass, “I kissed you first that time on the roof, in the middle of a firefight.”  
  
Steve’s breath caught abrupt at Bucky’s soft laugh, murmur shifting soft to hard, “How could I forget that? When we rescued you, from Sokolov, your torturer.”  
  
Bucky shook his head, “Not a rescue, I escaped. You just showed up to give me a ride.”  
  
“I stand corrected,” A laugh’s release held back, Bucky’s return to the Widow burning a hole in Steve’s gut.  
  
Shadows stealing Bucky’s lightness, “I don’t owe her, but I said I would do this.”  
  
Warmth of first kiss memories dissipating, Steve watched Bucky slip distracted, gaze falling on the distance. Rise of anger sending heat across skin, hard fought to keep it hidden. Flat-palm becoming a fist, pulled punch grazing the glass, jarring Bucky’s attention, “You can’t trust her.” Muscled tightness spreading, what he didn’t want to say gritted anyway, “You gave me your word.”  
  
Bucky muttering, “About eating? I don’t remember that.”  
  
“Not about eating,” Steve’s eyes closing for a second’s pause stolen, thoughts held back spilling out against his will, “About her. Not going back to her. You gave me your word, but here we are.”  
  
Bucky’s agreement nearly timid, “My word. No bullshit. Stronger than a promise, nowhere near a guideline.” Letting seconds pass, teeth catching his lip anxious; gaze sincere connected with Steve, “I meant it, I’m not back, just borrowing her.”  
  
Steve jerked the door open, striding direct, taking the space between the cars; palm’s hard slap of the door, inches apart sending a tremored startle down Bucky’s body, quick steps jerked back.  
  
“Don’t, I’m sorry. Don’t leave.” Gaze begging for Bucky’s trust; forehead pressed to the glass, Steve’s words a wrenching whisper, “I know what she did to you. I saw it. I know all of it, every last shit thing she did.”  
  
Confusion moving to uncertain, near to panic, Bucky’s head dropping to stare at his feet, “No you don’t.” Realization playing out shuffled movement, arms folded defensive, “I didn’t tell you anything on purpose.” Steps falling to retreat, gaze wandering distant beyond Steve’s shoulder. Murmured question almost not heard, “Everything?”  
  
Regret gripping Steve, temple’s pulse throbbed a twitch to his eye. Yanking the door open, steps rushed forward, an inch from where Bucky stood, “Look at me.” Fighting the urge to grab an arm, drag him in, finger’s twitch to take his skin; closing the gap to within a breath, quiet ask, “Look at me.”  
  
Bucky’s gaze trying to escape Steve’s insistence, wandering up, away, down until settling on his chest. Shamed rise to connect.  
  
Steve watched fear morphing to hurt play out in Bucky’s eyes. Cautious hand’s reach to caress a cheek stopped short by his flinch, hair shaken imperceptible, eyes darting his warning to stay away. Steve trying to take back what he’d started, “I’m not, I’m not trying to hurt you. You remember the silo. The pictures she played, taunting me, trying to hurt us. Showing me what they did to you, the things they made you do.”  
  
Anxiety moving his feet, Bucky avoiding his reach, a stumble into Romanova, jerking away from her outstretched hands. Uncertainty claiming every muscle and thought; hands shoved deep under his jacket, gathering the sweater, balled up hold in his armpits. Eyes quick searching desperate, final settle on a shadow, just over Steve’s shoulder.  
  
“I don’t care about any of it.” Steve regretting his blurted confession, “I care about you. Only you. Trust me, please.”  
  
Bucky’s tenuous glance towards Steve, wandering away; quick finding him again. A nod shaking his hair, a muttered, “Yes. Always yes.”  
  
Steve’s request quiet, “I need you to stop acting like she matters.” Hand extended, a grip of Bucky’s arm aborted to point towards Romanova, words spoken cautious, “Leave Sokolov with Tasha. You and I together, we stick together. We have a meal, we sit so I can see you. You can see me. Food, sleep, we talk. Not with her.”  
  
Natasha offering, “I know who she is. I won’t let her out of my sight, Barnes.”  
  
Bucky’s narrowed critical study of Romanova, a muttered, “Takes a Widow to contain a Widow.” Deep breath buying him time, a final agreeing nod, gaze dropping to his feet, “Okay, dinner car, together. Yeah, I can do that, I can eat.”  
  
Steve’s sighed relief, “Alright. Let’s go,” unconscious reach to catch Bucky’s arm, falling short when he pulled away. A turn to follow his anxious gaze.  
  
Sokolov stepping forward, hard look taking Bucky in, quick soften when Natasha and Steve turned towards her. Tone sing-song innocent, “Are you going back on your word, Soldat? You made a promise to an old woman to have a few small reminders of home. Will you deny me this?” Dark eyes straining to seem kind, glimpse of hardness showing through.  
  
Breath pulled in audible, Bucky rolling his shoulder, struggle revealed in the turn of his foot, gaze searching the space, nervous glance at the Widow, ending on Steve. The apology evident in his eyes, not spoken aloud.  
  
“No, Buck. You just told me you’d go with me.” Steve taking the space between them, blocking her view.  
  
Body closing inward, Bucky's gaze falling to the floor.  
  
Steve insisting, “You’re not safe with her. I have to keep you safe.”  
  
Train whistle jarring, speed slowing down to settle into a jolting halt. Doors opening both sides, conductors efficient taking control, people streaming around, pushing through the compartment. Jostling bodies filling the space breaking them apart.  
  
Bucky’s stumbled retreat from the crowd, back pressed to the wall, close to losing sight of Steve, hard to keep connected. Breath and words remaining clear in one another’s hearing, “She’s old. She asked. I said yes. Just this one stop. Then, then I’m all yours,” a laugh cut short, head tilting uncertain shy, “If you still want me.”  
  
Steve’s brow furrowed, ache in his chest taking his breath, “Always, I will always want you. Don’t forget that.”  
  
Bucky reluctant stepping forward, entering the flow of bodies pressing close. Chest bumping Steve’s shoulder, metal fingers slow stroke of his hand, lingered claiming touch. A lean to bring breath near to Steve’s neck, long hair’s brush of his cheek, scent filling his senses; home and sex and comfort. Their passing in the open, covered by the shuffling crowd, feel of forever, stolen seconds before Bucky disappeared.  
  
Steve standing alone, eyes tight shut, drowning in Bucky’s fading scent, head spinning light, balanced sway, caught by Natasha’s steadying hand.  
  
Romanova’s words quiet if not reassuring, “It’s all part of the game, Rogers, we need to trust him.”  
  
Familiar voice low whispered in his hearing, “I need the Widow. Not that Widow, this Widow.”  
  
Steve opened his eyes, sharp turn to follow Bucky and Sokolov “No you don’t. She is not what you need.”  
  
A laugh, caught short, Bucky’s voice cracking, “I need her for this mission, Rogers. Not like you. The way I need you.”  
  
Steve pushing through the crowd, close eye trailing Bucky, “Damn it, Buck, she’s using you.”  
  
Bucky’s answer garbled: passenger’s chatter, train’s settling groans, wind stealing his voice, Steve still hearing words drowning, “I know her. Better than you give me credit for. I know her.”  


<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

  
  
  
  
  
Tinged yellow light cast down from poles equidistant apart, pooling bright along the train station’s platform, harsh shadows moving sharp in the biting Siberian wind. Softening red lingering along the horizon, night falling as the train waited, engine idling, provodnitsas viewing passports in the dim of small flashlights; passengers exchanged coming and going.  
  
Steve hovering near the engine end of the platform, calculated distance, worried gaze following two figures close to lost in fading daylight; blocked erratic by the milling crowd. One taller than the other, long hair whipping across vision, his seeming not to notice; gloved metal hand balancing a cardboard box tucked under his arm. Bucky dragging his feet, obedient following the Widow, gaze casual deceptive; cautious attention on the crowd, studying faces, near and distant.  
  
Sokolov’s focus on the vendor’s line nestled in each pool of electric light selling their products to the train’s passengers. Examining the food offerings, her voice cooing and tsking distant, picked up on Bucky’s comm. Steve’s nerves grating at her words, curt and cold. Jaw clench sending an ache to his temple, resentment at her nearness to Bucky, voice bleeding over his mic. Hearing his breath shallow and quick, telling anxious with every cutting remark thrown over her shoulder, commands without a thought; feeding Steve’s anger.  
  
Natasha patrolling the far end of the sales stalls; Cyrillic banter with the locals' soft comfort in Steve’s hearing. Protective steps bringing Steve within a few feet of where Bucky stood. Cursory look at the items for sale, constant return to stare at Bucky’s back, thoughts lost in the movement of his body, weight shifting each step, mind slipping intimate, remembering every muscled twitch brought on by the touch of his hands.  
  
“You going to answer that, Rogers?” Natasha’s words cutting across his thoughts.  
  
Steve tugging at the phone, pinging in his jacket, “Tasha keep your eye on him,” as he answered the call, “Hey. Problems?”  
  
Sam launching, “Do not tell me that Barnes threw his phone out. Just do not tell me that.”  
  
Steve’s deadpan answer, “He didn’t throw his phone out.”  
  
“Good, great. Now, please give him a tutorial on how to answer the phone. I have been calling him for the last fifty-nine minutes. Note I did not say sixty minutes since that is divisible by three and I refuse, categorically to participate in his numbers fetish.”  
  
“Sam, It’s not a fetish. How can I help you besides the tutorial? He’s not going to answer right now.” Steve hovering behind passengers browsing the vendor’s wares. Pace shadowing Bucky and Sokolov, near enough to reach if needed, still distant enough for a prying gaze.  
  
“I’ve been staring at that sweat-soaked scrap of paper of his. I hope that’s sweat. Or water. Tasha said postal code so I ran those numbers through a search and I might have something here. It would save me a hell of a lot of work if he just gave us a name.”  
  
Steve searching the darkened platform beyond the pools of light, “I’m not convinced he knows the name. Those numbers could be addresses, codes. I haven’t pressed him on it.” Fading words as his attention caught on Sokolov’s hand, reaching rap of Bucky’s chest, finger pointing towards what she wanted, his jumping to obey. Steve’s anger throbbing pain into his jaw.  
  
Sam arguing, “Can’t you bribe him? Do that licking thing. Ask that damn Widow, maybe she knows. Cap, if these numbers are a postal code, the neighborhood, he’s never getting in there. These are the uber-mega-rich, oligarchs, heavy security. He’s gonna need an army to get past these guys.”  
  
Steve’s answer sending a chill across his skin, “Or he uses some old skills.”  
  
Sam asked, “You mean he Winter’s up?”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
Sam adding what he knew Steve didn’t want to say, “Or that Widow triggers him.”  
  
Steve letting seconds pass, implications being weighed, “Got it. I’ll take care of him, And her. Call me when you get there. And Sam, watch your six.”  
  
“Always.” Sam’s afterthought, “Hey, um, if he mentions the texts I sent him. I was joking. Mostly. I was pissed. Got it outta my system. All good now.”  
  
Steve asking, “Is that an apology?”  
  
A clear and emphatic “Noooo.” Sam’s answer as the call clicked off.  
  
  
Tucking the phone into his jacket, Steve turned his shoulder to block a frigid gust, studying light’s edges, shadowed figures moving ominous. “Buck, tell her the shopping trip is over,” keeping the pair at the corner of his vision.  
  
Sokolov’s curt demands, never looking at Bucky’s face, egged on by his purposeful slow response. His digging out rubles repeated, shuffled following her steps. Eyes averted from the vendors, ignoring their wares, feigned disinterest hiding the gathering of details by an assassin’s trained gaze.  
  
The Widow’s thin-fingered point towards a choice, dismissive wave for him to pay, quick moving to the next. Bucky reticent gathering her purchases dumped chaotic in the box. Her taking his slowness to task chiding barked in Russian, sarcasm wrapped in disdain.  
  
Steve not missing the cut of her tone, or the movement beyond the lights, “Okay, We’re done with this.” Hands shoved deep into jacket pockets, enough force to challenge the seams, pulled out in frustration. Darting steps towards Bucky and the Widow slowed by Natasha’s interruption, “Steve, we’ve got at least four candidates for the bad-guy list. Two just boarded the train, the other two have eyes on Barnes and Sokolov.”  
  
“I see them. Buck, are you paying attention here?” Steve holding worried steps on the edge of the crowd, near enough to see Bucky, heartbeat’s stutter at cascading brown hair, his sweater’s flash of color. Steve saying what he’d kept bottled inside, “She tortured you. She brainwashed you, stuck words in your head, shocked you into submission for years. God knows what else she did to you, and now you’re buying her snacks while her cronies show up.”  
  
Natasha trying to intercede, “It’s not that simple.”  
  
Voice rising, Steve pushing past idling shoppers, “Wrong. This is very simple. What she did to him. What she continues to do to him. This game is over.”  
  
Bucky interrupting, words low hinting impatient, “Rogers, I know they’re here. I see them.” Breath drawn long and staggered, “And, I remember what she did.” A mutter near apologetic, “I know what she did to me.”  
  
Steve cutting in, “Then end it. I’m here. Nat’s here. You don’t need her.”  
  
“I’m doing what I said I’d do.” Words detached, Bucky sounding distant, “I’m buying her Pirozhki, pastry things, stuffed with potato and meat, I can’t remember what they taste like if I ever even had one. Chocolate, I promised her that. And fish. I’m buying her fish. Smoked salmon. I never liked it. I think. The smell makes my stomach turn. Not food sick like eating brussel sprouts but memory sick.”  
  
Steve’s voice breaking faint, “Stop this. Leave her.”  
  
Pressured speech, tone flat, Bucky muttering, “I remember a cabin in the woods, oil lamps, soldiers standing over me. Blood, a lot of it, then again blood is kind of a given in my dreams so who knows. It was snowing, and pain, well always pain, and vodka. Red snow? Yeah. Red snow and really shitty vodka.” Pause hanging before a rush to finish, “And fish. That’s what they tried to get me to eat,” nervous little laugh, “I puked.”  
  
Steve shouldering his way through the crowd, “That’s it. Grocery run is done. On the train. Now.” Hand reaching for Bucky’s shoulder, last-second hesitation, standing chest to back, enough for windblown hair to tease against his cheek. Eyes shut to steal seconds bodies close, a whispered, “No more. Come with me.”  
  
Bucky turning around, fatigue showing head-to-toe, made worse by harsh overhead light. Gaze close to lost, refocusing in seconds, connecting with Steve’s, hinting a timid smile. “Hi. You’re not supposed to be this close. I’m not supposed to talk to you. I want to, I want to talk to you, to be close. I want you to hold me. I do. But I can’t.”  
  
Steve reaching to take Bucky’s cheek, seconds from tearing the box from his hands, dragging him into his embrace.  
  
Sokolov intervening, possessive arm across Bucky’s chest, keeping them apart, “We don’t talk to strangers, child. Get on the train, I’ll be right behind you.” Cutting look towards Steve, cold eye of expected obedience directed towards Bucky.  
  
Brow furrowed Bucky’s gaze searching their faces, Sokolov to Steve and back again. Hesitant shuffle, a step to leave, stumbled. A longing look towards Steve, whispering “I’m sorry.” Awkward push to squeeze between them heading for the train.  
  
Steve’s following held by Sokolov’s crippled hand, tight grip of his arm. Words loud and lilting, “You’re a very kind young man,” dropping to a threatening hiss, “You’re a fool, Captain. There are Vory everywhere, watching Us. He told you to stay away. He’s trying to protect you. So am I.”  
  
Arm pulled free, Steve snapping, “Bullshit.”  
  
Mother stepping closer, “Stay away from him.”  
  
Steve staring down, “Excuse me?”  
  
“You’re going to get all of us killed with your pathetic fawning over him.” Sokolov’s dismissal an abrupt turn to walk away.  
  
Steve grabbed her arm, “Don’t.” Pulling her near, bodies brushed menacing, “Let’s get something straight. Your time is over.”  
  
Her eyes a narrowed threat, words loud enough to draw attention, “You’re hurting me, young man.”  
  
Steve’s answer abrupt, “Good.”  
  
“We all have darkness inside of us it seems,” The Widow’s gaze shifting to her arm, finger’s deep clutch, encircling a frail limb.  
  
“Who’s the Architect?” Steve’s lean taking her space, finger’s tightened grip.  
  
Sokolov spitting, “Don’t be a fool.”  
  
Rough shake of her body, Steve rapid demanding, “Tell me the name of the Architect. What exactly is the plan? How are you getting in there? Wherever that is.”  
  
Her response a slight smirk, “You should ask your precious, Soldat.”  
  
Steve’s anger rising, body pushing, rocking her balance, “Stop calling him that.”  
  
Thin fingers clawing at his hand, Sokolov defending, “It’s what he wants. I am calling him the name he asked for.”  
  
Jaw muscle twitch, shaking her again, Steve repeating, “Who’s the Architect? Give me the god-damned name.” Hand wrapping her collar, weight lifted from the ground, dangling in the air, toes barely brushing concrete.  
  
Sokolov’s breathing choked, crippled hand waving dismissive, “An ancient crust of humanity barely worth this nonsense. A figurehead. Nothing more.”  
  
Immovable facing stubborn, Steve confronting Sokolov, the world around them bowing to their struggle over Bucky. Heated focus interrupted by the sound of Natasha’s voice, “Rogers, do you think you could knock it off long enough to help out here.”  
  
A body forced sudden between them, Bucky breaking Steve’s hold on the Widow. Her stumbling away, Steve staggering back. Metal hand rapping hard against his chest, fingers gathering his jacket, shaking his body, “Steve. What the hell are you doing?”  
  
Stuttered response, Steve lost in his rage, “I’m protecting you. I have to protect you.”  
  
Bucky dragging him forward, bodies pressing close, flesh hand catching his neck, pulling foreheads immediate, rasped whisper, “Not like this. Lubov moya, not by hurting her.”  
  
Steve’s knees slacking weak with Bucky’s touch, skin brushed to skin, breath teasing warm, hands rough move of his body. Eyes closing, rush of fatigue taking limbs and thoughts, willing give to Bucky’s claiming. Fingers digging under the sweater, searching for connection, warmed by the heat of his belly, hungered slide to hips, fear of losing him driving his possessive grip. Words muttered distracted, “I’m sorry, I can’t, I can’t watch this.”  
  
Bucky’s tone soft, affection mixed with a warning; tugging at Steve, forcing shuffled steps, “His name doesn’t matter. You don’t need to worry about it. I’m going after him no matter what.” Mouth’s brush of his beard, flirting a kiss, words murmured pricking skin, “You are not coming with me, no matter what.”  
  
Steve jerking Bucky’s hips forward, bodies colliding, “You’re going to have to stop me.”  
  
“I can do that. You’re not gonna make me. You, are going to trust me. Like it or not.”  
  
The cluck of Mother’s disgust loud enough for them to hear, not stopping their embrace.  
  
Train whistle piercing loud, engine’s hiss and groan building its start, provodnitsas call for them to board. Vendors retreating far beyond the platform, passengers tucked aboard the train, wind cutting sharp, discarded papers skittering past. Bucky too close to Steve, dissipating resolve, bathed in a yellowed pool of light.  
  
Natasha chiming in “So much for not being seen together.”  
  
Bucky’s slow release of Steve’s jacket, fingers stealing skin’s warmth, thumb’s stroke of his beard, “While the two of you bickered over me, the platform’s cleared, we’ve got a dozen Vory closing in, train’s leaving us behind.”  
  
Steve’s fingers digging into Bucky’s hips, “You don’t have to do this with her. Nat and I are with you. Just the three of us.”  
  
Bucky’s slight roll of his head, a finger’s soft caress of Steve’s mouth, “I told you, I need her. You, need to stop talking to her. You promised me. She’s going to get you killed.” Hands digging beneath Steve’s jacket, palms spread wide, taking the heat of his body, “Then I’ll have to kill everyone. I don’t want to kill them all, Just one. Just him.”  
  
Steve pulling him tight, mouth chasing mouth searching for the kiss; Bucky denying.  
  
Natasha’s voice, more in their ears than nearby, “This is all very sweet, the longing looks, the wandering hands, it’s all very Casablanca, but we’ve got incoming here.”  
  
Head tilting slight towards Sokolov, Bucky directing, “You. I got you what you wanted. We are done. Your Russian memories are over there,” a nod towards the box on the ground, “Carry it yourself.”  
  
Sokolov sidling closer, voice low, near a cooing whisper, intent hidden behind Russian words, “Put your Captain on the train. Forget this ridiculous journey, give yourself up, Soldat. The Vory will take us where we need to go, quickly and efficiently.” Change in tone, falsely sweet, “It’s the only way to keep your lover safe.”  
  
Romanova hovering near, electric blue of her weapons, a cool glow in the night, terse interjecting, “Barnes, my opinion, not that you’re asking, but, I vote thumb’s down on that plan. We need to all get moving.”  
  
Bucky’s gaze and hands remaining on Steve, his answer for Mother in English, “Get on the train.”  
  
The Widow’s steps edging closer, Cyrillic whisper hidden from Natasha, “I promise you will have your time with the Architect. Your Captain will remain safe, your Widow as well. Come with me, let them take us now.”  
  
Steve shaking Bucky’s hips insisting, “I don’t need to understand that, to not like the sound of it.”  
  
Sharp turn, Bucky striding towards Sokolov, a pull from Steve’s grasp; body driving her back, “Get your box, and get on that fucking train.” Hair’s breadth of separation, taking her space, forcing her stumble, words gritted in Russian, “You say another word to him, you goad him, speak his name, call him Captain; glance for more than three seconds at him, and I am going to split you gut to throat and feed you your still-beating heart.” Tremored body hovering, long hair brushing her face, Bucky’s gaze cold anger, “Do you doubt me?”  
  
Sokolov’s eyes widened split second before returning hard, a tell Bucky didn’t miss, her challenge hinting at shaken, “How dare you, Soldat.”  
  
“I dare because you taught me.” Bucky’s steps pushing her, low growled Cyrillic, “Keep in mind, they want me, not you. Get on the train or stay here alone. Your choice.”  
  
The Widow’s stare measuring his intent, taking stock of his sincerity for seconds too long. Slow turn, belligerent stride, gathering the box, spine rigid, head held up embracing icy disdain. Gait a quickened fast walk, no look over her shoulder, heading towards the rumble of the train’s slow roll to leave.  
  
Threatening figures hovering in the darkness, moving bolder with the clearing of the platform and the train’s building departure. Shadowed men dark figures slipping closer.  
  
Bucky stepping forward, facing the tightening circle, glove pulled from metal fingers and shoved in a pocket. Reluctant tug of the gun from his waistband. Glance not needed, a sense of Steve at his shoulder, words spoken quiet matter-of-fact, “I don’t want to fight them here.”  
  
Electric blue rapid fire of Natasha’s weapons streaking bright across their vision, shadowed bodies grunting as they toppled to the ground. Her stepping between Steve and Bucky, “There’s a time to fight and a time to jump a moving train. I for one, need to burn a few calories chasing a train.”  
  
Looks exchanged in seconds, Steve glancing at Bucky, eyebrow raised question not needing any words.  
  
Bucky’s glance between the two, a metal shoulder shrug an answer to her plan. Natasha sending a wide spray of stunning fire towards the Vory near to having them cut off. Last one falling in the spill of the overhead light inches from their feet.  
  
Three turning to race towards the steps of the final train car as it moved along the tracks. Steve forging ahead, overtaking the Widow, grabbing her arm, dragging her along. Rough pull jostling the box to land too far for them to retrieve.  
  
Steve lifting Sokolov, tossing her towards the steps, her unexpected scream a squealing echo as she hard landed splayed out prone. A reach to grab Natasha, hands on her waist propelling her forward, a jolting crash landing on the car’s rear platform handled with a Widow’s graceful roll settling on her feet.  
  
Pulling up short, Steve’s sharp turn to look for Bucky, following behind. Darting steps to back him up, warned off by his voice loud panted in their comms, “Go, I got this. I’m right behind you.”  
  
Steve’s shouted answer emphatic, “No. I am not leaving you.”  
  
Bucky groaned as he back-peddled, watching their rear, guarding their escape, “Steve, for once, once, trust me. Get on the fucking train.”  
  
“I trust you,” Steve words muttered reluctant, steps faltering forward and back; final commitment staggered towards the train. Stride taken slow at first, building to a run, final leap to land easy on the back of the car. Swinging around to watch Bucky only steps behind.  
  
Bucky running backward, watching their rear, a race to stop the Vory staggering to their feet. Quick work to knock them down one and then the next. Furtive glance over his shoulder, seeing Steve standing on the car’s back platform. A turn for a full-on run to join him, stopped short by Mother’s scream, “The box, Soldat, I dropped the box.”  
  
Steve yelling panicked, “No Buck, don’t. Leave it. Damn it leave it.” Scrambling down the steps, ready to jump, held back by Natasha grabbing his arm. “No, he’ll make it. Trust him. He’ll make it.”  
  
Bucky veering his direction, striding hard, thighs burning in the chase, deft reach to scoop the box from the ground, not breaking his stride. Muscles coiled burn, heart pounding ache tightening his chest. Tossing the box as he caught up with the fast-moving train. The box splattering hard against the back of the car, its contents falling scattered before the Widow’s feet.  
  
Darkness engulfing the tracks as the train’s speed picked up, leaving the yellowed glow of the station’s lights. Colder air surrounding, Bucky’s panted breaths visible in the air, Steve watching him run chasing after the train. Time standing still, painful seconds lasting minutes in his mind.  
  
Bucky slowing down. Stride shortened, steps faltering, glint of moonlight on a metal hand pumping as he ran. Sweat-soaked skin, hair blown unkempt by the pounding of his body and the icy wind of a Russian night. Gray eyes hinting a decision that only Steve could see.  
  
Grated whisper meant for Bucky, spoken silent in Steve’s mind, “Don’t. Don’t do this.”  
  
Hanging precarious from the bottom step, Steve’s arm outstretched, body straining desperate, fingers reaching. Words rasping raw, “Don’t you dare give up. I know what you’re thinking, I know what you’re doing. I won’t let you do this.”  
  
Voice drowning in rattled noises, Bucky’s answer choked on pulled in air, “It’s better this way. You’ll be safe.”  
  
Rush of panic crushing pain across Steve’s chest, pulse pounding in his head. Wrapping a leg around the metal rail, fingertips white raw from the strain of his reach. Regret driving his confession, voice hoarse against rattling wheels, near stolen by harsh wind, Steve’s whispered hope that Bucky could still hear him, “I love you.”  
  
Aching groan as Bucky kicked harder, pain shooting hips to knees to soles. Steps pounding driven along the rocky railbed, chasing the train carrying Steve. Eyes clear focused on his outstretched hand, determined not to miss it again. Adrenalin fueling every cell, body pushing harder, daring reach, metal fingers brush of flesh, sending a fired jolt along his arm.  
  
Fingers tight entwined, palm’s slide to desperate grip, Steve catching Bucky’s hand, fibers burning with his effort, worth every second of the pain.  
  
Bucky making a staggered leap, body launched full-force landing in Steve’s arms, both in a stumbling fall, knocking Natasha to the floor. A sprawling tangled mess, breaths grunted short.  
  
Steve wrapping Bucky arms and legs, hands catching his neck holding him possessive, fingers digging deep grasping hair. Mouths so close heat of breath warming lips chapped cold by the frigid night.  
  
Panted efforts taking air, Bucky gasping a word between each breath, “What did you say?”  
  
Eyes closing, shaking his head, Steve tugging him tight bound by his body, “I need you. I said I need you.” Fingers carding an owning grip of Bucky’s hair, a hold near crushing his chest.  
  
Knees drawn up to straddle Steve’s hips, Bucky squirming free enough to let eyes meet, silent pointed study. A finger’s trace of lips, a dip to tease his tongue, watching eyes close in aching want, Bucky letting seconds pass, leaning to whisper against Steve’s mouth “Liar.” Sudden anxious whine, mouths desperate meeting, Bucky taking the kiss, Steve not denying him.  
  
The Voice’s weighing in thoroughly ignored.  
  
_“Soldat: Three. One for making Mother piss her pants. One for putting your foot down with the Captain, and one for heroically saving that damn box of shit food. Luckily there was nothing breakable. By the way. Mother: Zero. The Captain: Zero. You’re coming up in the world.”_

 

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